


A True Gem

by LunaStorm



Series: Tales of Christmastime [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Gen, Potential Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-07 04:45:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 36,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaStorm/pseuds/LunaStorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is snow in the air, a gem is kidnapped, Sherlock analyses his favourite biscuits and John misses everything of importance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Anything you recognize - be it character, location, idea or line - isn't mine and I'm just having fun with it!

 

**A TRUE GEM**

** _A Christmas Case for Sherlock Holmes_   
**

** **

  
_  
_ **Part I**  


“Bored.”

John ignored the deep, intense voice of his annoying flatmate as he went about making his morning tea.

The sky out was that pearly shade of grey that promises snow: he could already anticipate the cheerfully pungent air waiting for him outside, the peculiar quality of cold that heralded a white sprinkle over the city. Glancing out, he could see the cheerful blinking lights of the decorations through the windows opposite theirs. Only two days to Christmas, now. He wasn't going to let Sherlock ruin the mood.

“Boo-reed!”

Not for anything.

He opened the fridge and ignored the severed hand in a bowl, neatly tucked next to his butter, with practised ease. There was no point arguing: he simply resigned himself to toast with nothing but jam. Or, make that toast with nothing at all: jam that odd shade of green was likely not jam anymore, no matter what the label claimed. Labels had no hope of keeping up with Sherlock's experiments.

“BORED!”

A dramatic crash testifying to just how bored Sherlock was drew John from his quiet musings. He sighed. “Was that the vase Mrs. My-Husband-Might-Be-Cheating-On-Me gave you as a thank you gift?” he inquired mildly, bringing a cup of tea for Sherlock into the living room along with his own.

There was no answer, unsurprisingly, so he let it go and put the cup down on a haphazard stack of books near the couch where his mulish best friend was at once sprawled and contorted on himself: a feat that a part of John's brain found vaguely fascinating.

“John, I'm bored.”

“When are you not?” he sighed again, lowering himself on his armchair and savouring the hot warmth of his mug. He disliked cold as a rule, but there were little moments like this – cradling a hot drink in chilled hands, watching flames dance in a hearth on the rare occasions he had a chance to, taking a walk in a whirlwind of snowflakes – that really made winter worth it.

“When I have a case!” came a dramatic declaration from the tangle of limbs that was Sherlock.

John blinked, needing a moment to retrace the conversation he hadn't been aware they were having and recognise where his flatmate's comment fit in it. “That was a rhetorical question, Sherlock!” he exclaimed dryly.

“Well, it wasn't a rhetorical answer,” retorted Sherlock petulantly.

John made vaguely soothing noises as he sipped his tea. Sometimes it worked. This time it didn't.

Sherlock glared at him outraged, then jumped up from the couch with one of his characteristic bouts of feverish energy and started pacing the room like a caged panther, literally jumping on the furniture when it got in his way. John closed his eyes, just to avoid the risk of getting dizzy watching that pale blue dressing gown flapping furiously, and continued savouring his hot tea. There was no need for any input on his part. Sherlock was going to start ranting any minute now...

“Why can't someone have the decency to become a serial killer?”

Case in point.

“Don't let anyone hear you say that,” warned John, knowing it would do no good, but having to try anyway.

Sherlock went on ignoring him: “A really juicy triple murder, now that would be something... or a locked room mystery, maybe... why can't anyone commit a decent crime?”

John opened his eyes to watch his best friend throwing his hands in the air dramatically. Probably despairing over the current irritating goodness of people. “It's Christmas,” he offered tentatively.

“Oh, God, you can't possibly believe in all that ridiculous 'goodwill to men' stuff,” scoffed Sherlock.

John wisely didn't answer. In his opinion, it was a fact that Christmas season just made everybody more inclined to feel happy with their lot, even if only for a short time. Well, mostly everybody. But still, there was something in the combination of luminous reds and rich greens, of golden shines and glossy tinsels, of Christmas carols and brightly-coloured gifts, that very simply made people friendlier, happier... for a while.

There was no way to put the feeling into words Sherlock would understand, though, so he simply repeated: “It's Christmas.”

“Four serial suicides in a row is Christmas, John! A rush of frenzied shopping that supposedly celebrates a man who preached the renunciation of worldly goods is just hypocrisy.”

John sighed. “I'm just trying to say that you shouldn't expect people to feel vicious with stockings hanging in their living room and the fragrance of gingerbread cookies in the air; or to commit some brutal crime when there's snow in the yard and strangers shouting 'Merry Christmas' to those who pass them in the streets.”

Sherlock glared disgustedly at John and muttered something along the lines of “Ridiculous!” He stopped his restless pacing to glare out of the window for a moment: “There are about 7 billions people in the world and only 2.2 billion of them are Christian of any denomination so why is it that everybody seems convinced there is something special about this date?”

“There's more to Christmas than religion, Sherlock.”

“It's a religious commemoration,” pointed out the consulting detective with his usual fastidiousness.

“Perhaps, but when it comes down to it, Christmas is about family, warmheartedness, togetherness, friendship: it's about working together towards something good; about giving the best of themselves in the service of others and reaffirming the ties with your loved ones.” He shrugged slightly with a small smile: “These are values anyone can share and that's what makes Christmas special. Belief in a deity is not required.”

Sherlock sniffed disdainfully.

“No!” said John calmly, but raising his voice just enough to make his point heard. “Nothing you will every possibly say will make me change my mind on this. Christmas is special and that's all there is to it!”

Sherlock pouted. “Still don't see why criminals should stop committing crimes because of it!” he muttered petulantly.

John snorted a laugh into his mug. “They don't. See?” he waved the newspaper as evidence. “A few frauds, couple cases of embezzlement...”

“Dull!”

“Drug possession...” he continued in an overly-innocent voice.

Sherlock glowered at him.

“Shoplifting all over the place...” he tried.

“Dull, dull, dull!”

“At least three instances of assault and battery...”

“Oh, God, please spare me!” shouted Sherlock in his typical exaggerated way. He grabbed the frame of the window and gazed out at the street below with loathing: “Look at that,” he murmured in disgust. “Quiet. Calm. Peaceful. Isn't it hateful.”

John chuckled: “You're insufferable, you know that?”

“I need a case, John. I _need_ it!”

“So text Lestrade and tell him you'll solve a couple of the shoplifting ones,” John joked.

Sherlock only just barely beat back a scream of pure frustration. “I mean a good case!” He hit the frame with a fist, again and again: “A murder! An international smuggling ring! Something!”

Then he rounded on John with a look of utter despair: “John, my brain is rotting as we speak, I can feel it. I. Need. A. Case!”

“You could always ask Mycroft for one of his,” said John lightly. The resultant glower would have incinerated him on the spot if such a thing was even remotely possible. John chuckled again and folded up the paper he'd glanced through.

There was a pause of glum silence in which he enjoyed draining his tea with a contented sigh.

“John.”

“Hm?”

“I need a case!”

“And I need to go,” replied John easily, getting up and gathering his things.

“Go? What do you mean, go?” Sherlock stopped suddenly and glared at him, looking completely outraged.

“To the clinic,” specified John patiently. “You know, my job?”

“Dull!” spat Sherlock, collapsing on the couch once more.

John shrugged. Truth be told, he wasn't at all sorry to have an excuse to leave his flatmate to his own devices for a while. No matter what that would likely mean for the safety of his laptop, Mrs. Hudson's furniture, or the flat in general. “See you later!” he called back.

He got no reaction, but that was Sherlock for you.


	2. Chapter 2

The air was indeed icy and sparkling and John felt energized. It was certainly going to snow soon. The thought put a genuine smile on his face: somehow, snow always had the power to cheer him up. Especially around Christmastime.

The walk to the clinic didn't take long and, as he'd been doing every morning in the last week, he made a beeline for the colourful stand just outside the entrance: a small, wooden booth that sold little toys and trinkets as a way to raise funds for the wing destined to long-term hospitalization of children.

A part of John always felt saddened in catching sight of it, and perhaps irritated: why was it that these things only ever popped up around Christmas? Children in need were in need every day of the year! To only think of them towards the end of December didn't sit well with him.

On the other hand, his inner army doctor knew all too well that when you're in need, any help, however small, counts.

Too many times he'd found himself fighting haemorrhage with nothing but hope because blood stoppers and even bandages were too hard to come by. Too many times he'd dreamed of and wished for simple things like sterile sponges and antibiotic ointments, because even one antiseptic wipe could mean life instead of death. A children's hospital was a world apart from a scorching battlefield, of course, but the principle remained the same. Any little help was immensely better than no help at all.

So he dutifully bought two trinkets every morning: nothing overly much, just the price of the coffee he usually indulged in but could easily go without – as he pointedly informed his more indifferent colleagues. They were usually brightly-coloured plastic bracelets or spinning tops and they worked as well as lollipops on his youngest patients.

As he drew near, he saw that today it was the blonde teenager manning the stand, Sylvie, and he stifled a groan.

It wasn't that there was anything wrong with the poor girl, far from it. Of the three that rotated at the task of handing out the trinkets, she was the youngest and the sweetest.

The dark-haired one, Brittany, was a scowling cloud of ill-humour, forever complaining about having to stay there in the cold – John had had to bite his tongue more than once: why was she working there if she didn't believe in what she did? – and as for the ever-indifferent Claire, she could barely be bothered to raise her voice enough for her languid comments to be heard: it was frankly off-putting.

Sylvie, on the other hand, was radiant with cheerfulness and seemed to have the gift of charming every child that crossed her path. She was sweet and generally more than suited for what she did. No, the problem was that she had a major crush on John and that was... awkward.

John steeled himself for whatever today's nonsense would be and called out a greeting much more cheerful than he felt.

She turned sharply when she heard his voice, apparently forgetting her other customer entirely mid-sentence, and went red to the roots of her hair: “Oh! Doctor Watson!” she exclaimed breathlessly. “Good morning!”

Her eyes were lighting up the way Sherlock's did before a SEM microscope pointed at the head of a maggot. It was unnerving.

“Ah... hello.” He tried for a genuine smile and hoped it wasn't coming out as a grimace instead. It really wasn't her fault, he reminded himself – except that, well, it kind of was.

Her smile grew impossibly bright: “I'll be right with you!” she exclaimed happily.

She wrapped up the sale on the other corner of the stand with impressive speed, while John tried to ignore the amused grin the other customer was throwing at him. Then she turned back to John, red flowing to her cheeks again, and hurried to him.

Or tried to. As John had noticed, she seemed to become incredibly clumsy around him. Case in point... She tripped on her own feet, grabbed blindly to stop her fall and in so doing, knocked over an entire shelf, spilling toys all over, promptly slipped on a fallen toy car and barely avoided a tumble by catching herself on the counter, half of which was overturned and collapsed on her, pouring yet more trinkets on the floor of the stand.

John valiantly refrained from laughing. He was rather proud that his 'Are you alright?' came out with the right degree of friendly-medical concern, too.

She whimpered and his half-smile vanished. “Did you hurt yourself?” he asked quickly, this time with true worry. It didn't seem so, his expert eye scanned her and found nothing wrong except a bit of embarrassment and perhaps a few bumps, but she was clearly distressed. Maybe he'd missed something...

“Oh! Oh, no! Oh, what a disaster!” she sniffed. “Oh, what you must think of me!”

John relaxed in relief. Just embarrassment then, alright. Nothing serious.

“I'm so s-sorry, Doctor Watson!” she very nearly wailed. “I... oh, God, I'm never so c-clumsy, I promise you, I just... I don't know what came over me!”

She looked around dismayed and John fidgeted, unsure: “There, there, ah, it's alright,” he said weakly. She raised to him clear blue eyes filled with tears and he hastily added: “Could happen to anybody. Really, nothing to be ashamed about. I know you're not – ah – clumsy. You're, hum. Very capable. Yeah.”

“Oh! Do you mean that?” she lit up and John cursed silently his inability to just keep his mouth shut. “Oh! Doctor Watson, you're so kind!” she sighed dreamily.

He gave her a strained smile, praying she wouldn't read anything in it, and she giggled. Actually giggled. John cursed within himself. Forget giggling at crime scenes: he had to remember to warn Sherlock that giggles were Not Good _anywhere._ Especially if a woman – or girl, as it were – was included in the equation.

“Right... ah... I should just...” he half-gestured to the clinic. “Work, you know... ehm... if I could just...” He stopped expectantly, realized she wasn't going to guess the end of his sentence, coughed awkwardly and waved his wallet a little, giving her what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

She smiled back, apparently oblivious of his wish to do exactly what he'd come here to do – namely, buy two trinkets for charity. She was also blushing prettily again. God above, couldn't such a girl have happened to him, say, back when he was in high school?

Quickly, he grabbed two random things from the nearest not-upturned basket: “I'll take these,” he said more brightly than it was warranted, holding them up in one hand.

The girl started, as if surprised, then smiled vivaciously: “Of course! It's so good of you to stop by every day. You're so generous, Doctor Watson!” John closed his eyes, praying for patience. “Here, let me give you a little bag...”

“No! No...” he hurriedly interrupted. “No, that's alright. I don't need it!”

“Oh, but...!”

“That's fine!” he said quickly. “Here, I really must go...” He pressed the money into her hand, just willing to leave, but instantly realized his mistake when her breath caught and her eyes went round, staring at their touching hands like a child might gaze at a triple-chocolate cookie handed to him.

John snatched his hand back quicker than if he'd been burned. “Right. Going now. Right.” He backed away hurriedly, but not fast enough to avoid catching her adoring gaze as he turned.

He groaned silently and hastened towards the clinic. He supposed he should be flattered, but seriously. She was barely sixteen! Just... no.

He contemplated morosely the trinkets in his hand. Two 'princess rings' with plastic 'gems', big, gaudy and very, very pink. He should have paid better attention to what he picked up. Hopefully he would get a little girl or two today, he couldn't imagine who else might like such horrid things.

He raised his gaze again only to meet Sarah's laughing eyes as she came up to him from the parking lot. He groaned audibly this time: “Don't you start.”

“Why, John! You can't really blame the poor girl. You're an amazing catch, you stud!” she drawled in a truly awful Texan accent.

“Sarah!” he chocked, scandalized.

She burst out laughing: “Your face!”

“It's not funny,” he complained as they entered in the familiar entry hall.

That set her off again: “It so is!”

“She could be my daughter!” he hissed.

Perhaps catching the slight tone of horror in his voice, she calmed down her chuckles and became a little more sympathetic: “Relax, John. It's just a crush. Girls that age are prone to that kind of thing. It'll pass.”

“Know from experience?” he asked snidely, hoping to rile her up. Turnabout was fair play, after all.

Sarah, however, was unfazed and completely unapologetic as she replied serenely: “Chemistry teacher.”

“No way!”

“He was so dreamy! Tall and with such dark eyes and...”

“Oh, God, I give up!” John shouted and he all but ran away, followed by her good-natured laugh.

His hope of finding shelter in his job was soon crushed however. He had barely put on his white coat when his first patient entered: an incredibly wrinkled old lady with a truly forbidding hair bun, who peered at him suspiciously before asking with tremulous viciousness: “Are you sure you're a real doctor, young man?”

His eyebrows rising, John briefly debated whether to laugh at her or be offended, then went with neither: “I assure you, madam, I'm very good at my job.”

“Hum,” she sniffed and scuttled to the chair, perching there like a formidable rook. “Well, at least you're good-looking,” she proclaimed.

John stared at her. This was going to be a long day.


	3. Chapter 3

And indeed, it was.

A long, trying day of people with sore throats, muscle aches and odd-looking rushes, interspersed with sniffling, coughing, feverish children. Flu season was always draining.

John felt rather proud of how well he was handling his workload, all things considered. He diagnosed, prescribed, listened to, was sympathetic and didn't once voice his inner grumblings.

He kept his calm in front of the idiotic sports-junkie whose leg hurt, it turned out, because he'd been running 6 miles without having the sense of keeping himself hydrated and who had the gall to proclaim far too jovially: “So you've got to fix me up quickly, ol' chap, I can't miss the race, after all, besides it's nothing serious, just give me some painkillers and I'll be alright, that diclofenac thing works best, now there's a good chap...”

Right. Giving out – to an idiot who couldn't be bothered to look after himself and thought he could self-prescribe, no less – what amounted to a performance enhancing doping substance? John felt he was due points for being polite when he made it clear that That Was Not An Option.

His composure didn't falter under the completely unwarranted rant his irritating colleague, Dr. Tornwell, threw at him when one of Sherlock's homeless turned up with a gash on her arm, even when the fat, grey-haired physician went so far as to complain that “...there's no knowing where we'll end up with your attitude! What will be next, Watson, going around to check on the worthless drug addicts keeling over in back alleys? Administering medicaments to all and sundry?...”

Seriously. It was good John had such excellent self-control. He didn't even point out loud that That Was The Point – they were doctors, for God's sake – or that he hadn't, in fact, asked Tornwell to do anything about it – he treated the homeless who turned up as a choice, but knew better than to expect the same from the likes of Tornwell. Nor did he punch the selfish right-winger in the nose. Points again.

All in all, though, he was feeling rather stressed by mid-morning, which was a tad too early in his book.

The only ray of light he got was a sweet seven-year-old Asian girl, whose anxious adoptive parents brought in, panicked because of her wheezing cough. She was cute and shy, turning to hide her shallow features and high cheekbones from him, then peering out to him upside down from a fringe of black hair, and she looked utterly adorable in the protective circle of her mother's arms.

The tall, blonde woman quickly explained that their usual paediatrician was on holiday, but they were too worried to wait for him to come back, then tried to cajole her shy daughter to let herself be examined: “Come on, angel, the Doctor will make you all better!”

Meanwhile the young-looking, worried father, who kept running a hand over and over in his hair, quickly reported what symptoms they'd observed, along with everything they'd looked up on the internet about them – “Although in the end, we just got more and more confused,” he concluded ruefully.

John chuckled: “Yeah, that's not the best source of information when it comes to health. Too many people just writing their exalted opinions without bothering to gain a medical degree first.”

All three adults chuckled quietly together and this seemed to convince the little girl that John was harmless after all, because she slid quietly from her mother's lap and padded over to grasp a little handful of his trousers lightly, letting the doctor pick her up and set her on the cot for the examination without a fuss.

John quickly determined that she was more or less healthy and the only cause for worry was the high-pitched whistling sound his stethoscope picked up from her lungs. She gasped and giggled at how cold it was and he tapped her button nose with a smile, making her laugh and cough.

“I think it's nothing more serious than an allergic reaction,” he told the worried parents. “Did she get a flu vaccine?”

“Yes, the new nasal spray one,” the mother told him, worriedly. “Is that what's making her ill? It was supposed to be better than shots...”

John smiled: “It generally is, because it avoids the risk of soreness, pain, and swelling, but sometimes it can result in sore throat, weakness, chills, and yes, wheezing. It usually only lasts a day or two, though, so you should be feeling better quickly,” he concluded turning to the girl herself.

She nodded shyly and smiled at him, showing off two missing front teeth when he picked her up again and returned her to her mother. The two made a lovely picture, the little girl's dark skin and black hair nestled against the fair woman.

“The paediatrician recommended the vaccine so insistently...” said the father unhappily, clearly distressed that they'd unintentionally brought harm to their daughter.

“Just ask for her to get a flu shot instead next time and she shouldn't have any problems,” reassured John, before reaching into his jacket pocket and offering one of the pink plastic rings to the girl. “Here, little one. This is for you, since you were such a good patient.”

She beamed and chirped: “Thank you, Doctor!”

John smiled back: “My, what a polite little princess,” he commented jokingly.

“Oh, she is!” gushed the radiant father, gazing lovingly at her. “She is a true gem.”

John saw the little family out and sighed a little wistfully. Ah, if only all of his patients were like this!

Although admittedly, the sharp, rambunctious boy who'd dared his little brother to an 'eating snow contest', catching them both a cold in the process, wasn't so bad. It was the kind of thing Harry and he might have done as children.

Alright. _Did_ as children.

John grinned and winked at the two squabbling boys behind their exasperated mother's back.

The diabetic man in denial, on the other hand, made him feel as if he'd gone through a round of Anderson's particular brand of stupidity.

“What do you mean, injections? I don't want any injections.”

“Mr. Dymond, you need insulin and subcutaneous injections are the best way to...”

“Need? Need?” The man glared at him: “Why would I need that... whatever you said, stuff? I'm not ill. I'm just feeling under the weather.”

Right...

It was nearing lunch-time when he got a visitor that wasn't a patient. The interruption was more welcome than he'd like to admit, at least at first.

“Hum, Doctor Watson?”

“Yes?” he asked, surprised to see one of the girls from the fund-raising stand outside – Brittany, the sullen one – on the door. For once, she looked alert, rather than bored – and worried, too. “Has something happened? Are you hurt?”

“No, no,” she fended him off quickly. “No, I- I'm sorry to disturb you, but there's been a bit of a mix up - Sylvie getting the boxes confused, you know how it can happen... and...”

John watched her uncomprehendingly.

She faltered, but went on: “I- I was just wondering if I could have a look at the rings you purchased today? Just a check, you know...”

“Oh,” said John, completely puzzled. “Hum, sure? But I already gave one away, I'm afraid.” He twirled to search his pockets for the other one, asking idly: “What is it you need to check, anyway?”

“What?” she froze, the syllable coming out rather strangled. “You... what... why?”

He turned to her, even more puzzled: “I gave one to a little girl I treated. Here's the other, though. Looks pretty unremarkable to me.”

“You... you gave it away...” she was paling terribly.

“I always give the trinkets out to the children who come in,” explained John, frowning. “What on earth is wrong with that?” _With you_ , he didn't add.

The girl bit her lip viciously, then she seemed to collect herself: “Oh, it's just,” she made a haphazard motion with her hand. John wondered what on earth she could be so nervous for.

Suddenly, she seemed to get an idea, or maybe make a decision: “You won't get us in trouble about this, will you?” she gave him the puppy eyes.

“In trouble?” echoed John, now completely confused.

“It's just, we made a mistake is all. We were not supposed to touch the box in the corner, because it had some faulty ones, but Sylvie forgot and she opened the box and actually she says she only sold them to you, but...”

“Ah,” John nodded: “You think you'll get in trouble for this?” Surely not? “Don't worry. I'm sure it's nothing serious. Besides this seems okay to me.”

She glanced the ring over quickly: “Oh, yes, of course. Quite alright. They got mixed, though, you know? I'm just trying to substitute the faulty ones,” she insisted a little desperately. “Preferably before Mrs. Peterson finds out. You know how it is. You, ah... you don't think the girl you gave it to is still around?”

“I doubt it,” said John shaking his head, “but why are you so worried? I'm sure it doesn't matter all that much.”

Brittany looked for an instant as if she wanted to bite his head off: “Mrs. Peterson is very strict!” she told him with as much dignity as someone with a spider-shaped pendant and skull earrings around Christmastime could hope to gather. “She's going to blame us for the mistake and make a huge fuss about it and probably bore us to death with her scolding!”

John refrained from rolling his eyes. She was seventeen, that kind of threat was probably dire indeed, for her.

“Look, stop worrying,” he told her patiently. “I'm sure there was nothing wrong with the ring I gave out. I'm even more sure that even if there was, the girl's parents won't come back to complain about it. So just relax about it, ok?”

Brittany glared at him blankly for a moment, then she forced a hesitant, insincere smile: “Of course. You're probably right, Doctor Watson. I'm worrying about nothing. Only, if Mrs. Peterson finds out... she's very strict, you know.”

“I'm sure,” he said soothingly, gently shooing her out the door.

 _“Very_ strict!”

“Yes, yes...” he sighed long-sufferingly, only to meet Sarah's amused gaze as she passed by: “I thought it was the blonde one who fancied you?”

That brought him up short. “Excuse me?”

“Thinking up silly excuses to meet you... What next?” Sarah shook her head with mock despair, laughter in her eyes. “At least she's smart enough not to pretend she's feeling ill, you'd spot that in a minute...”

John groaned. Was she really...? But no, he hadn't got that kind of vibe from the encounter. Although that would explain the nonsensical conversation. Maybe Sylvie had come up with the idiotic idea to get him back out at the stand to 'exchange the faulty trinkets'? Then sent Brittany because she was too shy or something? Girls in sitcoms did that kind of thing.

He pondered.

Had it just been a silly plot to get him out in Sylvie's company again? He could imagine Sherlock's comments on the matter if it was so. But something just didn't feel right with the explanation. Though, in effect, Brittany was just the kind of girl to grow irritated with such a farce and react as she had to him frustrating her probably not-very-willing-to-start-with efforts. But that didn't ring true to him.

On the other hand, they were teenager girls. A species apart by definition. And one Sarah had an enormously better chance at understanding than him. Maybe he just didn't want to admit the ridiculousness of the situation those girls were putting him in.

He groaned again. God help him!

He took a deep breath to avoid glaring at his innocent next patient. Which turned out to be not so innocent after all, seeing as he was there for the sole purpose of convincing him to sign a medical permission to cover his week-end in Southend. Not. An. Option. John managed not to scream at him and afforded himself bonus points for it.

Then he went to grab a sandwich for lunch and prayed the afternoon would be better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to my best friend, who is an intern and provided me with all the pesky medical details I would have no way of stringing together without her help!


	4. Chapter 4

His hope was dashed instantly when he walked back to the clinic to find a pink little nightmare screaming her lungs out in his office.

She was a little beauty of about four, with golden-chestnut curls and big brown eyes, but her angelic looks were completely belied by her beastly behaviour. Her little face was red and scrunched up and she was kicking her father spitefully, screaming her lungs out.

The pale and harried adult trying to shush her – no ring on sight: single father, rather helpless, spoiling her horribly, John mused, and gave himself a mental, congratulatory pat on the shoulder for _observing_ rather than just _seeing,_ for once – was, quite clearly, ineffective.

She was spoiled alright. John wasn't an expert on children by far, paediatrics never having been an interest of his before this job, but even he could tell at a glance that it wasn't the subdued and keening crying of a child in real pain, but rather a tantrum. He spotted what looked like a slap mark on her face and couldn't bring himself to blame the father overly much.

Her tantrum didn't abate in the slightest at his arrival. If anything, her cries became even more screeching and she started shouting: “No! You promised! I want it! I want it!”

He stifled his sigh and plastered on his friendly-doctor smile, even though he was itching to give the screaming brat a shouting to of his own.

“Hello, I'm Doctor Watson. How can I help you?”

The poor father looked completely unable to cope with the fit his horrid daughter was throwing and tried ineffectually to give the proper greetings and explanations over the screaming cries that almost drowned out his voice.

His worried and hurried “I didn't strike her, I swear!” managed to get through, though, and John got the gist of the situation. A closer examination showed that the 'slap mark' was, instead, a red rash and he nodded to himself.

“Quite alright, it's probably just fifth disease,” he reassured the father, though privately, he mused that a slap might have done the girl some good, considering. Unfortunately, it wasn't his place to criticize the man's parenting skills. So he simply donned a pair of gloves and braved the screaming child.

Her tantrum kept going on and on and she was becoming even more hysterical. When John went to try and bounce her frilly t-shirt up to check her torso for the lacy red rash that would confirm his diagnosis, she screamed twice as loudly and kicked _him._

John gritted his teeth.

The father managed a weak: “No, no! Princess, you can't kick the doctor!”

She promptly kicked John again.

Well, enough was enough! Deciding that a decisive action might be in order, he firmed his stance and in his sternest captain voice he barked out: “Stop this instant!”

He quickly took advantage of the second or two in which she was shocked into silence and stillness and grabbed her gently but firmly by her tiny arms: “Now listen and listen well,” he told her commandingly. “I'm a doctor and you're my patient, so you'll stay quiet and do as I say.”

Utter outrage filled her; John could practically see her swell with indignation. Her eyes narrowed and she inhaled with a hiss, her face already reddening, clearly about to start screaming again.

“None of that!” John barked again and she was derailed, almost chocking on her own shout, then settled for hissing furiously at John and crossing her little arms, looking at once mulish and wary.

John wasn't impressed and levelled her with a glare he'd perfected through several rounds of 'dear-God-what-is-it-like-in-your-boring-little-brains' from Sherlock.

She tried to kick him again and he grabbed her leg, glaring at her so fiercely she looked a little cowed. Alas, not for long.

“You're a very stupid doctor!” she spit.

“No I'm not,” John retorted, without missing a beat. “I'm a smart doctor and very good at what I do,” he said with matter-of-fact finality.

It was, apparently, the right tactic, for the girl gaped at him, completely surprised that he'd just told her she was wrong instead of pleading and cajoling like she was probably used to. Besides, John had noticed that most children her age tended to take straightforward proclamations as automatically true and unarguable.

She quieted down completely, forehead wrinkling in a frown as she tried to work out how the situation was changing around his point-blank declaration. She was clearly thrown by the unexpected turn her little tantrum scene had taken.

John watched for a long moment, determining that she was clearly perplexed and not a little curious about this unexpected development. Good enough.

“Right,” he said briskly, straightening up. “Now...”

“What are you gonna do?” she asked demandingly. “And what is that?” she pointed at his stethoscope. “Why do I have to stay on this thing?” she batted the cot petulantly. “Why are you dressed like that? Is it doctor's clothes?” she insisted, rage apparently forgotten in favour of inquisitiveness.

John thought ruefully about the Power of Curiosity, mind flying to other tantrums diverted by the appearance of a novelty. Not that Sherlock would ever admit they were tantrums, of course.

He checked her torso and found the expected red marks, blithely ignoring her non-stop blathering: “What are you doing? Why do want to see my tummy? Are you going to look into my mouth? Jenny said _her_ doctor looked into her mouth. Why aren't you looking into my mouth?”

John chose not to even try and answer and instead turned to the father, who looked equal part relieved and flabbergasted and kept darting his eyes from John to his little girl.

“Like I said, it's fifth disease. It's not very serious and doesn't need any treatment. It'll go away on its own in a week or so,” he said quickly. “I'll give you an antihistamine in case the rash itches, but try not to overdo it.”

Unfortunately, it seemed that not being the centre of attention didn't sit well with the irritating girl – another thing she had in common with a certain overgrown child of a detective...

She let out another furious scream. The father's attention spun to her instantly: “Princess, what's wrong?” he asked frantically.

“This is what's wrong!” she shouted, thrusting out her tiny fist, in which something was clutched tightly. All her previous indignation seemed to swell up in her again and John almost groaned at the idea of a renewal of the tantrum.

“Here's the receipt,” he said hurriedly, hoping to get rid of the pair before the situation degenerated again. Unfortunately, he was ignored by both father and daughter.

He gritted his teeth once again.

“Princess, please...” tried the father pleadingly. “Let the doctor finish here and then we'll talk about this...”

“NO!” she shouted furiously. “I don't want no stupid doctors! And I don't want this!” her voice rose even higher.

“That is ENOUGH!” roared John, completely fed up by this point.

The child closed her mouth, bewildered and offended.

John glared at her.

She bit her lower lip and tried whimpering, hunching a little on herself and turning huge, shocked eyes on him.

John just looked at her coolly, completely unfazed by the act.

She huffed.

“Ehm, well. I. That is. Thank you, Doctor Watson,” murmured the father nervously. “Let's go, sweetums.”

She narrowed her eyes at him: “But you promised! It's not fair!” she wailed. “You tell him!” she rounded on John, suddenly calling upon his higher judgement – clearly expecting him to agree with her against her father.

John stared at her, amazed at her behaviour.

“But Princess...” sighed the father, already looking resigned.

“You said I could have a ring if I came here! Like a real princess!”

“Yes, yes, but you do have a ring, don't you? I bought you one before we got lunch, surely...”

“It's wrong!” she screamed. “Look!” she turned to John again, holding out her palm authoritatively for his perusal.

John sighed and looked down at the gaudy ring with a plastic 'gem', almost identical to the ones he'd bought that morning, except that it looked a little crooked and not well-fitted – probably because she'd abused the plastic during her earlier tantrum – and the fake stone was blue rather than pink.

“It's a ring,” he told her flatly.

“It's blue!” she spit, as if it was the worst offence in the history of toy rings.

John blinked. And resisted the temptation of a deadpan comment. Barely.

“But Princess,” tried the father, a little desperately, “blue is a nice colour, isn't it?”

“It's not for princesses!” she retorted haughtily. “Princesses have _pink_ rings. Everybody knows it!” She crossed her arms, glowering.

“But Princess, don't you remember, Princess Jasmine has a blue dress...” the father tapered off under his daughter's contemptuous glare.

“Well, she doesn't have a _ring,_ does she,” the girl retorted.

Suddenly, and with a wave of relief, John saw the light – and a way to bring this irritating meeting to a quick end: “Here,” he said brightly, talking over the annoying pair, and he fished out the second of the rings he'd bought that morning. “How about I swap yours for this one?”

The girl brightened instantly: “Oooh!” she cooed and in the blink of an eye, the pink gaudy thing was on her finger – looking quite out of place, too big for her frail hand – and the slightly smaller blue one was carelessly thrust against John's chest, where it bounced off and clattered to the floor.

“You were right!” she exclaimed happily. “You really are a smart doctor!” And she started happily singing something about a prince and birds and wedding bells ringing.

Did she never keep quiet? John wondered if his uncharitable wish that she'd get strep throat was really that awful of him, considering he wasn't even voicing it. Probably no points for him this time. Ah, well.

He managed to usher the apologetic and grateful father and the innocently beaming child-brat out and didn't quite resist the temptation of slamming the door behind them and collapsing against it.

Why did he keep thinking he would like marriage and kids again?

He caught sight of the discarded, offensively blue trinket on the floor and picked it up with a sigh. She had to have mistreated it rather badly, because an outer layer of transparent plastic was peeling off of the 'gem' at the corners already, the way it usually happened to cheap toys a few weeks after they were bought.

He rolled his eyes, stuffing it in a pocket and debated going out to tell the receptionist that if he saw another child today he might end up screaming. He was sure Mandy would sympathize with him – she was a very understanding person.

Apparently, though, someone had decreed today to be Saddle John With Bratty Girls Day, because instead of Mandy, he spotted Brittany by the reception station; the teenager was propped on the tall counter and leaning dangerously over it to reach the staff computer on the other side.

He frowned and walked purposely to her. “Brittany?” he asked sternly.

She jumped in fright and cried out, overbalancing and knocking her elbow painfully. “What!” she spat rounding on him. “Oh, ah. D-doctor Watson!” she stammered.

“What are you doing?” he asked suspiciously. Her eyes widened and darted around, as if looking for help: “N-nothing!” she squealed and added quickly: “That is, I'm just waiting. Ehm. For the receptionist to come back, is all.”

“Really,” said John, without losing his frown.

“I gave her my ID, for a copy,” she muttered, just a little desperately. She looked tense and uncomfortable, as if she really didn't want him to find out more.

John's frown shifted fractionally: “Wait, to register as a patient, you mean? Are you feeling ill?”

“No!” she said instantly. “No, I just... hum... that is... I-I knocked something over and- hum- but you needn't worry or anything!” And she muttered something about 'doctors fussing all the time' under her breath.

John relaxed, slightly amused: “Well, as you say, I am a doctor. Worry is what I do.”

“It's just that I don't want a big fuss or anything,” the girl explained, growing more earnest. “In fact, I'd rather it all be forgotten. If Mrs. Peterson finds out...”

Ah, of course. The terrible Mrs. Peterson.

“I'm not going to rat you out to your boss, you know,” John told the girl, now really amused.

“It's just that she's...”

“Very strict, yes. So I've heard,” he said dryly.

“It's barely a scratch, honest, I wouldn't have even bothered to come in, only, it was a rusty nail, so...”

John nodded: “Better safe than sorry, yes. Wouldn't do to catch tetanus right outside a clinic. Do you need me to give you the shot?”

“Doctor Sawyer already did,” she replied promptly. “Really, you can just go, Doctor Watson. I'm all fine.”

John narrowed his eyes. “Right,” he said mildly. “Except that none of this explains what you were doing with the staff computer,” he added with a pointed gaze.

She froze like a deer in headlights and then, catching him completely off-guard, she bolted around the counter, almost pouncing on the computer.

However, reflexes honed by a sherlockian life-style meant that nowadays, John reacted to someone bolting from a questioning without much input from his brain.

In a heartbeat, he was on her and dragging her away from the mouse, right on time to catch sight of a window being reduced. He shot her a furious look, manhandling her back to the proper side of the counter with a hissed: “What do you think you're doing!” then stalked back to examine the reduced windows and figure out what she was up to.

There were just two: a database format for patient registration, with the kind of boring bureaucratic details they were required to collect for statistical purposes – name, sex, age, address, arrival time and so on: nothing that could possibly interest a teenager – and... ah.

A flash game Solitaire, half-way through.

He sighed openly, standing up and glowering at the pale and worried girl: “Honestly!” he huffed. “This is a workstation! I can't believe you were playing here...!”

She recovered a bit of colour and seemed to calm down considerably. “You...” she said hesitantly. Then she tossed her hair defiantly. “You don't seem very angry, Doctor.”

“You can bet I'm angry!” he snapped. “What were you thinking! Scratch that, were you thinking at all?”

Brittany sulked and hugged herself a little: “It was already open,” she defended herself sulkily.

John rolled his eyes and firmly steered her towards the waiting area, where she sprawled on a plastic chair with a put-upon huff.

“She was losing anyway,” she grumbled. “I was doing her a favour, really.”

John smothered the chuckle that threatened to erupt, made a mental note to have a quiet word with Mandy about playing during work hours, and delivered a very condensed That-was-wrong-I-better-not-catch-you-at-it-again scolding to Brittany, before going to poke his head in Sarah's office with a very hangdog expression.

“John?” she asked, a little concerned, half-rising from her desk.

“When did I become a full-time playground monitor?” he asked mournfully.

She chuckled, fell back into her seat and waved him off.

The rest of the day, by God's blessing, was less stressful – although if he ever met in person the businesswoman who thought sending her PA with a list of symptoms instead of coming herself to be examined was smart, he'd have some pent-up frustration to vent at her alright – and in the end, his turn came to an end.

At least he was free the next day.

It was dark and raining slightly outside when he finally shed his white coat. Walking briskly, he fished out his phone and glanced through the expected list of texts.

With the mood Sherlock had been in that morning, being pestered by his messages was certainly not unexpected. Seeing as the first ten had been not-so-poetic variations on the theme 'We're out of milk, drop your boring albeit necessary job and get some so I don't have to get up from this comfortable couch' – which was just typical, really – he'd turned it to silent mode and deliberately ignored it during the day.

He half-regretted it now, though, because scrolling through the list, he realized that sometime after lunchtime the tone of the texts had shifted from 'I want tea, come home now' and 'I'm bored, come home now', to 'I'm no longer bored, come home now.'

A case? That was most likely. If Sherlock had found an experiment that could engage his interest, he'd either have forgotten to text entirely, or gone on pestering him about tea, so... apparently not all criminals went on holiday around Christmastime.

Fighting a grin, John looked around for a cab.

He arrived at 221 Baker Street just in time to see his flatmate bounding down the stairs, coat flapping because he was still buttoning it up and manic stars in his eyes. “John!” he shouted gleefully. “At last!”

John found himself unceremoniously thrown back into the cab he'd barely left and he tried to get his bearings while Sherlock rattled off an address to the cabby imperiously.

“So...” John coughed awkwardly, smothering a smile. “I take it my dinner will have to wait?”

“John!” reproached Sherlock. “We have more important things to worry about than food!” He was positively beaming and John felt torn between groaning and grinning. “The game is afoot!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, many thanks to my medical expert/best friend for helping me with John's job.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am here (obviously!) paying homage to Arthur Conan Doyle's "The Blue Carbuncle", possibly my favourite of Sherlock Homes' short stories, along with "The Speckled Band".

John fought to contain his own, rising excitement. But not too hard: a case was a case, after all, and deep down, it wasn't just Sherlock that felt it had been too long. He was already feeling energized and more alert than should be possible after the hellish day he'd had.

"Care to bring me up to date?" he asked his best friend, not bothering to stifle his eager grin.

Sherlock's eyes were glistening with excitement: "A jewellery theft!" he cried happily. John raised his eyebrows: "Really?" he asked, surprised. "Doesn't seem like the kind of case you would get excited about. You usually solve these ones from home, if at all."

"Ah, but John! This case isn't half as dull as I first feared. See, there is no trace that the theft happened at all!"

"What? You mean you what, deduced it had happened before anybody realized it?"

"No, no, John. I doubt even I would have noticed hadn't I been told. I do need data as basis for my deductions after all!" Sherlock told him reproachfully. "But see, Horner's has a state of the art alarm system, truly excellent, I've researched it and it is considered the best on the market; alarm system, which is still armed and showing no evidence of tampering! The sensors have recorded no unusual changes and there is not the smallest trace that anyone touched anything around the incriminated display case. Furthermore, the shop is in the Hatton Garden area, which means there are security cameras virtually everywhere: yet they show nothing of use."

John nodded distractedly: Hatton Garden had been the centre of London's jewellery trade since the Middle Ages and to this day, it was well-known for being the largest and most concentrated cluster of jewellery retailers in the UK. High security in the area was a given... "Wait!" he frowned suddenly: "How do you know what the security cameras did or didn't register?"

"I watched the feeds, of course," said Sherlock matter-of-factly. "In a case such as this, the provider of the security system is obviously the prime suspect – having the skills and possibility to arrange, say, an opportune malfunctioning or the like... Therefore I went to Breckinridge Security this afternoon, as soon as I'd finished examining the crime scene. The possible time-frame of the theft is restricted enough that checking the pertinent recordings didn't take long."

"And they just let you see whatever you wanted?" asked John disbelievingly.

"Well, no, they wouldn't," admitted Sherlock. "I came to an understanding with the manager and owner, though. A Mr. Howard Breckinridge, in his early fifties, recently divorced judging by the mark on his ring-finger; making a good attempt at looking utterly professional – classic, Henry Huntsman suit, ready tailored, but nevertheless; eye-contact at all times; curt politeness: conveying the image of a person of competence and discretion and with many zeroes in his annual bonus package; a very glaring tell, however: he kept drumming his fingers on the desk, eagerly, not erratically - nervousness, then, born of impatience, not fear - and glancing at the Pink'un website on his smartphone every few minutes – compulsive gambler, obvious – all I had to do was goad him into a few bets: I lost a fiver and gained access to his archives."

He looked very pleased with himself.

"Amazing," murmured John, unable to contain his smile. "And there was no sign of anything being amiss?"

"None whatsoever!" confirmed Sherlock gleefully. He paused artfully. "Except, of course, that the Blue Carbuncle is missing," he concluded, and sat back, extremely satisfied.

"The blue carbuncle?" asked John curiously.

"It's a very famous gem, but only in the right circles," Sherlock told him virtuously. "Forty-grain weight, unfaceted and convex, resinous rather than vitreous luster; remarkable for its colour, obviously, which marks its rarity."

"And gives it the name," guessed John, a bit surprised by the enthusiasm with which Sherlock was relying all this. It seemed a tad unwarranted, considering his friend's usual attitude to trivia.

"Obviously," confirmed Sherlock's. "Though of course it is rather improperly named. 'Carbuncle' is an archaic name for the nesosilicates nowadays more commonly known as garnets."

"I thought garnets were red?" asked John.

"They actually come in many colours, depending on what trace elements impurities they contain. Blue garnets are invariably the result of a high vanadium content, along with some chromium, as evidenced by the fact that in most instances they exhibit a dramatic colour change from green-blue in sunlight or fluorescent light, to a purplish red if exposed to incandescent lighting," explained Sherlock. "The Blue Carbuncle, however, is one of the only two non-colour-changing blue garnets ever found, the other having been recently discovered in Bekily, Madagascar."

He turned to gaze out of the window with a faraway look: "It's really very fascinating. I wish I could examine it with a scanning electron microscope, or even better, a mass spectrometer. It would be interesting to determine its solid solution series exactly... I suspect it would prove to be the pyrope-almandine-spessarite combination, most likely with balanced percentages of pyrope and spessartine and almost no almandine. And of course, the vanadium content would likely prove to be very high, possibly up to 1.5 weight percent..."

He trailed off with the kind of focused, absent look that meant he was engaged in a thought experiment somewhere in his mind palace.

John shook his head in fond amazement. Sherlock would never cease to baffle him. The turns his vast, if skewed, mental encyclopaedia could take...

"How do you know so much about it?" he let slip, both admiring and incredulous.

He only half-expected an answer, resigned by now to the fact that when Sherlock got lost in his own mind, John's voice simply didn't register with him anymore.

To his surprise, however, Sherlock did reply: "You know perfectly well I have studied geology in-depth," he said admonishingly. "It is a rather excellent forensic tool, after all. Really, John, you know my methods! Why are you even surprised?"

John nodded slowly: "Yes, the muds and everything, I get that. Linking suspects to a crime scene because of soil analysis... pretty amazing and all, yeah. But this is gemstones... jewels, ornaments; nothing very practical, is it? I didn't think you would be interested in precious stones."

"Jewels are often a nucleus and focus of crime," retorted Sherlock. "Of course they're interesting."

"Oh?" 

Sherlock gave him a sharp, displeased look: "We have first-hand proof of it, John. Honestly! You can't have forgotten that jade hairpin already. You even wrote an absurdly romanticized account of the case on your silly blog!"

John rolled his eyes, but didn't say anything. He was rather fascinated by the impromptu lesson and didn't want his friend to interrupt it just to berate him. Or sulk.

Sherlock, anyway, was already launching into further explanations: "And there are so many other instances to support my claim, if you but look at the history of crime. Really, every good gemstone is a fulcrum of law-breaking. There is something in the way they glint and sparkle that has a potent effect on men's greed. They are a lure for the most heinous acts. In the larger and older jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed."

"Poetic," murmured John, amused. Sherlock ignored him and made a short, demonstrative gesture with his hand: "Take this one we're supposed to recover, for instance. This particular garnet was found in the banks of the Amoy River in southern China and brought to England after the Treaty of Nanking of 1842. In less than thirty years after that, it became the pivotal motivation for two murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide and several robberies."

"Seriously?"

"Absolutely." There was no mistaking the glee in Sherlock's tone. "Then it was inherited by the Countess of Morcar... and she managed to lose it in one of the most creative and singular thefts I have knowledge of."

John turned part-way to him: "This ought to be good," he said expectantly.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up just a fraction: "She was here in London, staying at a hotel with no other company but her maid, and the stone went missing from her own jewel-case. An unlucky plumber, who had been called upon for some minor repairs, was accused of having abstracted it; though the case against him collapsed because there was no way to prove anything. Mainly because there was nothing to prove, he was innocent." Sherlock sniffed. "Incontrovertible evidence that the police wasn't any more competent a hundred years ago than it is now."

John smothered a chuckle.

"It was only ten days later that the gem resurfaced, however," Sherlock continued, darting a smug glance at John, "in the stomach of a goose."

"Excuse me?" asked John, fighting laughter. "Did you say the _stomach_ of a goose?"

"Precisely, John. Pay attention! A woman bought a city-bred goose for her family's Christmas dinner, having no idea, of course, that the bird she'd chosen by chance was of considerably more value than what she'd paid it. And when she went to prepare it..."

John burst out laughing: "You're having me on!"

"I assure you, John, I am perfectly serious. That is what happened."

"But how did it get in there?"

"Ah, that's the beauty of it. Nobody could make heads or tails of that little mystery. Of course, if I had been there, I would have been able to sort it out easily..."

"How so?" asked John fondly.

"Why, by the simple expedient of checking where the goose was bought! Any idiot should have been able to do so. It would likely have taken a bit of legwork, since it might have changed hands more than once, but ultimately, it couldn't have been difficult to trace it from buyer to seller, back to whoever raised it. Because obviously, the only way for the gem to end up where it was, was for the goose to have eaten it."

"If you say so," said John agreeably.

"Unfortunately, nobody had the sense to do something as simple as that, and it was merely by luck that the mystery was solved at all. The Countess' maid, you see, had been an accomplice of sorts, in that she'd known who the real culprit was and said nothing, because he'd promised to marry her. When, instead, he disappeared without a word, she came forth and told the tale – out of spite, I imagine, because the man had already left British soil and she was the only one to be punished in the end."

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," commented John sagely.

"Still, they were all idiots. If they'd but used their head, they wouldn't have needed that woman's deposition to figure out that the culprit's sister was a breeder of geese, and they would have caught the man before he made it off to wherever. Instead they just wondered and marvelled and wrote sensationalistic articles about it afterwards." Sherlock sniffed. "Very inefficient."

"Real culprit?"

"The upper-attendant at the hotel. He stole the gem, framed the plumber and hid his spoils very cleverly, by feeding it to one of his sister's geese, of which she had promised him his pick as Christmas present! A very clever and very daring decision, which would have marked him forever as a genius of crime, if he hadn't then been so idiotic as to forget which goose he'd fed the gem to, and proceeded to take off with the wrong one."

John collapsed into helpless laughter: "Unbelievable!"

"Perhaps," mused Sherlock, his eyes slightly narrowed. "But you know, John, I feel this case might present several parallelism with that one. Indeed, I would not be surprised if the perpetrators had chosen a similar way to fool us all..."

John's eyebrows rose: "You expect the thieves to have fed the thing to a goose?" he managed through his chuckles.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. Nobody grows geese in town anymore."

John gulped in some air and stared. "And that's what you find ridiculous with my statement?"

Sherlock ignored him: "Ah, here we are," he remarked with satisfaction and the cab pulled to the side of the street.

John recognized the corner between Nether Street and Howcroft Crescent – living with Sherlock was certainly giving him a very deep knowledge of London. "So what are we doing here?" he asked.

But Sherlock was busy glaring pointedly at the cabby: "I should say, here we are at last. For surely we could have arrived much earlier, if our good driver hadn't chosen to tour half of Barnet before getting us to our destination!"

John caught sight of the cabby's face reddening in the rear-view mirror. "Ah, well, now," the corpulent man mumbled. "Sorry 'bout tat... 'Twas a good tale, is all. Can't blame a bloke fer bein' curious! Tell ye what, I'll only charge ye half, hows tat?"

Sherlock bristled at the mangling of the English language, and John, knowing the signs, hurriedly thanked the cabby and pushed his friend out. No point missing out on a half-fare just because of Sherlock's personal crusade in defence of Grammar.

"I'll ask again," he said, to divert Sherlock's attention. "Why are we here?"


	6. Chapter 6

"We're here to interrogate Henry Baker, of course," sniffed Sherlock, marching off towards the nearest row of neat but undistinguishable suburban dwellings.

"Interrogate Henry Baker," repeated John, drawing on his patience. "Right. Ok. Why, exactly? For that matter, who is this Baker?"

Sherlock ignored him with practised ease. John sighed and hurried after him.

The tall consulting detective veered decidedly towards Number Nineteen and in a moment he'd crossed the desolate-looking corner of garden and was knocking impatiently at the unremarkable door, still ignoring John.

The doctor shrugged and caught up with him. He should have known better than to expect explanations when Sherlock was on the hunt, he supposed.

A faded woman with a lurid pink hairnet, wrapped in a washed-out pink robe and with a dull, uninterested gaze, opened the door a fraction.

"Sherlock Holmes," his flatmate said authoritatively, flashing what looked suspiciously like Lestrade's identification before the woman's eyes so quickly she had to blink. "I'm here to talk with Mr. Baker on the matter of the Horner theft."

She frowned, looking worried, but shuffled out of the way.

The house was a typical semi, with a dark, narrow corridor going off to, probably, the kitchen, a sitting room on the left – John caught a glimpse of an over-abundance of lollies and frillies over worn furniture and the murmur of a soap-opera from the TV in a corner – and narrow stairs to a just as dark first floor.

The woman dragged herself to the bottom step and peered up, abruptly screeching: "Haaa-ryyyy!"

The sound of a chair scraping came from somewhere above them. She turned to Sherlock and made a vague motion up the stairs, then shuffled back to the sitting room, sliding into the room. She glanced back once and glared at John, who gaped back, and she slammed the door with finality.

"Right," John muttered.

Sherlock was already sprinting up the stairs and John followed with a muffled curse.

They met their quarry as he was coming out of his room: a gangly man, probably in his late twenties, judged John; with the same mousy hair and undefined features as the woman downstairs, but with sharp, intelligent eyes.

"Mr. Baker? We're here to ask a few questions about the Horner theft," said Sherlock with an overwhelming air of authority. "I'm sure you were expecting us."

He practically bulled the man back inside the room – not very spacious, but brightly lit with several lamps, in stark contrast to the rest of the house – and immediately started looking around, in typical Sherlock fashion.

John allowed himself a good look as well.

The most eye-catching feature was the black and white poster of a XIX century train station which covered the entirety of the wall on their left: a highly detailed triumph of open ironworks spanning from floor to ceiling and leaving no corner of the wall supporting it visible. The intensely black girders were almost disquieting, but also rather cool, John had to admit.

The rest of the room was far less striking: standard furniture of average quality, cheaply varnished white woods and a lot more plastics than John could bring himself to appreciate. A small bed still unmade was wedged next to the door; a big window without curtains occupied the wall opposite it, with a slipshod studio couch under it and a narrow radiator attached to the wall, pushed all the way to the corner.

On their right, opposite the photographed railway station, a desk was pushed between the edge of the window and a small wardrobe, with a turned on laptop on it. The desk was positively overflowing with magazines, notebooks and various papers; John was fleetingly amused by the fact that the desk seemed to hold the entirety of the room owner's books, too, for there were none to be seen elsewhere.

Sherlock, of course, had taken in all this and surely a lot more in a fraction of the time it was taking John and was already turning towards their... was he a suspect? A witness? John wasn't really sure...

In any case, the man was tense and worried: "Questions? What kind of questions?" he asked, looking troubled. "I mean, if I can help, of course, but I don't see how I- how do you even know- did Mrs. Ravensdale... or- wait, you aren't police, are you?"

"No," said Sherlock curtly, which seemed to leave the other heartened and uncertain at once. "Tell me about the theft," the consulting detective then ordered, focusing his intense gaze on the young man.

Mr. Baker blinked, managing to appear somewhat bemused: "But I know nothing of it!" he protested, but it was half-hearted.

Sherlock scoffed in disgust and glared.

The man gulped, looking intimidated: "A-all right... well... I- I can tell you what I've been told?" he ventured, darting nervous glances at Sherlock and even sparing a few for John.

Sherlock's glare went up a notch: "You can tell me everything, _including_ what you've been told," he replied forbiddingly. "You work there, don't you? That means anything you tell us might have relevance to the case."

John couldn't help a soft: "Oh!" as he finally realized why, indeed, they were interrogating Mr. Baker.

"Yes, John. Oh," mocked Sherlock impatiently, then insisted with the young man: "Start with what you did last night and this morning – every detail."

"You could have just told me," grumbled John, very quietly.

Henry Baker gulped again: "I-I..." he looked from the consulting detective to John, apparently lost. "Well... okay... so. Last night. Well, nothing. I mean, I didn't go out or anything. Didn't even see Cathy. I got back from work at half past seven p.m., had dinner with Mum, then studied until I went to bed. Ehm. This morning... same thing, really: nothing weird happened, to me at least." He seemed to falter a little under Sherlock's unrelenting attention.

Taking pity on him, John prompted him: "Why don't you tell us anyway? We're not familiar with your routine, after all."

"Right." Baker looked a little relieved as he turned to talk to him, still glancing nervously at Sherlock every now and then. John mentally rolled his eyes: how had Sherlock and he ended up playing 'bad-cop-good-cop' like in a cheap Hollywood movie?

Baker started talking hesitantly, then with more and more confidence: "I... I always catch the tube in the mornings... around quarter to eight, usually, and then I walk the last of the distance to the jewellery. It opens to the public at half past eight a.m. but I always go in earlier, to check on things, you know, report if anything is amiss, that kind of thing, and to let the cleaning lady in too – it's part of my job."

Sherlock interrupted: "Cleaning lady. That would be... Mrs. Gupta?"

"Yes. That's right." Baker licked his lips. "She's been doing it for years now – since before I was hired," he said in a carefully measured tone. "Mrs. Ravensdale, the owner, thinks her very trustworthy."

He was suddenly scrutinizing Sherlock avidly, as if hoping to spot suspicion in Sherlock's face, but the consulting detective was giving nothing away. "And was anything amiss when you arrived?"

Not quite managing to hide his disappointment, but not insisting on the topic either, the young man replied a little sullenly: "No, not at all."

"Nothing?" pressed Sherlock.

"I'm telling you, nothing was amiss!" retorted Baker, unexpectedly growing irritated.

"It could be very important," interjected John, to smooth things out a little: "please try and remember – even if it's something small and insignificant."

Baker gave a put-upon sigh, but closed his eyes to try and remember better: "Display windows, counter, showcases... no, nothing was out of place – it's quite easy to spot if it is, because all the furniture is in strict and clear lines. It's supposed to convey our seriousness, you see. The showcases were all untouched, of that I'm sure."

"Wait, didn't you say the gem had been stolen?" frowned John.

"That was in the vault!" protested Baker. "I wouldn't have seen it either way!"

"Oh?"

He must have sounded perplexed, because Sherlock threw out a rather distracted explanation: "The store has a fairly standard layout, John - large display area in the front, then a hallway that leads to a private viewing area, the manager's office, a small walk-in vault, and an employees' toilet. According to the manager the most valuable jewels remain stored in the vault until a prospective buyer comes along."

"Exactly!" cried Baker, sounding half-exasperated and half-vindicated. "Nothing I could have noticed was amiss."

"Hmm," was Sherlock's only comment. "Go on," he ordered, turning his focus on the corner between the sofa and the desk.

Baker glared, but it lacked any kind of heat. "Well, then I checked the day's to-do list, exactly as I do every day. Mrs. Ravensdale arrived, we exchanged the usual small talk, we opened up officially, Mrs. Gupta left. All as usual. I'd seen that what we expected to be the most likely buyer for the Blue Carbuncle had an appointment that afternoon, so I reminded Mrs. Ravensdale, and also that I was supposed to meet a lady in Surrey for an evaluation of some jewels she'd recently inherited. So I left."

"To go to Surrey."

"Yes. I gave Mrs. Ravensdale the key for the safe we keep in the vault and went to look for a cab to take me to the station, then I took a train to..."

"Wait. _You_ gave Mrs. Ravensdale the key?" Sherlock's attention was once more riveted on the man.

"Of course. She needs it for the safe. I told you, that buyer was expected that very afternoon and I couldn't be sure I'd be back on time!"

"But why did you have the key?" asked John, perplexed. "Isn't she the owner?"

"Are you implying that I'm not trustworthy enough for such a responsibility?" cried Baker, obviously offended.

John blinked, thrown by unexpected ferocity of the reaction. He hadn't meant anything with his comment, he was just trying to understand.

"Just so you know," sniffed the man, in a defensive tone, "there are _two_ keys. A safety precaution. Mrs. Ravensdale can be forgetful, she sometimes leaves hers in her desk drawer, it's best that there is another level of security! And of course, I cannot use mine on my own..."

"Why not?" interjected Sherlock coolly. "You could very easily retrieve Mrs. Ravensdale's key from the drawer you know it's in, could you not?"

Baker rounded on the consulting detective with a thunderous expression: "I would never," he hissed, breathing hard. "And it wouldn't do me any good anyway, even if – which I'm _not_ – but in any case I don't know the code – both keys must be used together and the right passcode inserted, otherwise the alarm goes off and the police intervenes."

"Sounds overly complicated," muttered John.

"No, it's important!" retorted the man vehemently. "That's our top-security safe, the one we only use for special pieces, it must be first-rate. The others are much simpler, of course..."

A brief silence followed.

Judging by the faraway intensity of his gaze, Sherlock was clearly contemplating something and John smiled a little at Baker while he waited patiently for the genius to decide on their next move.

The smile was not returned.

After a moment or two, Baker started fidgeting and soon it was him that broke the silence: "I was told when I got back from Surrey that there was no clue of any kind about how the theft had taken place," he said nervously. It was and wasn't a question. "No fingerprints... no signs of break-in..."

"...and no damning CCTV footage," concluded Sherlock curtly. "That's correct."

"But how is that possible?" blurted out Baker, distressed.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and didn't bother answering.

"Could it have been the owner? Mrs... Ravensdale, was it?" wondered John aloud. "Like, an insurance scam or something?"

"Of course not!"

"Obviously not!"

The replies had come in perfect unison, Baker's indignant, Sherlock's disdainful.

John scowled: "Well it seems like the most likely explanation to me – she had both keys, presumably knew the code..."

"How dare you! Horner's is one of the most reputable jewelleries in London, I'll have you know!" cried Baker, furious and offended.

He seemed ready to launch into a rant, but Sherlock cut him off brusquely: "Yes, yes, whatever. The point is, John," he went on rapidly, ignoring the other man, who frowned thunderously, but soon deflated under Sherlock's supreme disinterest, "assurances frauds are very difficult for jewels retailers. Most companies nowadays use statistical analysis to identify suspicious claims for further investigation. Since a claim is identified as 'suspicious' by comparing it to expected values, which in turn are obtained by analysing records and by marking symptoms that in the past have often been associated with fraudulent claims, you can imagine that jewellery theft is very much a 'red flag'. In fact, it is, along with warehouse fires, the most frequently attempted assurances scam and therefore, obviously, one of the most difficult, as any claim is minutely investigated..."

John nodded: "Fair enough."

"Fair!" exploded Baker, sputtering indignantly. "There is nothing fair about insulting a respectable lady like this – impugning our good name – accusing us of... of...!"

But Sherlock wasn't done: "Furthermore," he went on, still supremely unconcerned with Baker's less-than-coherent grousing. "There is the matter of reputation to consider."

"Our reputation is impeccable! Impeccable, I tell you! And I won't stay here and listen to you throwing mud on..."

"Yes, yes," snapped Sherlock, clearly aggravated by the raising volume of Baker's voice. "As if I care. Reputation is nothing to _me."_

Baker cried out, outraged, but was ignored.

"But to a jewellery such as Horner's?" continued Sherlock. "Oh, yes. I understand how important it is. Customers' trust is at the heart of such a business. A reputation of fairness, punctuality, consistency... its impact is invaluable. Essential to any hope for future deals. And unfortunately for them, it's the kind of thing that takes decades to build, and all of five minutes to lose, especially in our times, when every misstep is so efficiently magnified and spread online."

"Which is why you should take better care of what you say...!" tried to interject Baker, venomously.

"And reputation recovery? Almost impossibly hard," went on Sherlock with gusto, though John was unsure whether he was relishing the topic, or rather how effortlessly he was irritating their witness. "Which is why, naturally, Mrs. Ravensdale called me instead of the police."

"What?" asked John, surprised. "I thought you were cooperating on this one."

"Cooperating?" squeaked Baker, his outrage derailed by sudden panic. "What – no, you said you weren't – have you told the police?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes: "No, no. Your precious reputation is safe – for now. So long as your buyer believes Mrs. Ravensdale's excuse, at any rate."

The young man winced visibly.

"So she hired you directly?" asked John curiously. "Through the site?"

Sherlock shrugged: "Her sister'd been a client of mine years ago – a case of blackmail her idiotic adolescent son had got himself embroiled in, rather dull all in all – and word gets around, you know. She specifically recommended discretion on the matter. See? Reputation." He smiled grimly. "She stands to lose everything because of this theft, just imagine the glee with which the press would sensationalize it... and she'd gain what? It can't be that she needs the money: she'd get it anyway, after all, the buyer's willingness had already been ascertained. A regular sell, in this case, would be the quickest and safest way to obtain it. She might have had a reason to want the gem for herself I suppose – sentiment," he grimaced, "but if that was the case, why offer it for sale at all? It was hers already. No, no." He took a deep breath, evidently coming to the conclusion of his tirade. "It wasn't her," he declared with finality.

"I should hope not!" was Baker's passionate comment. "And the mere fact that you tried to accuse us..."

Ignoring him completely, Sherlock fired off an abrupt question: "Where do you keep your key?"

Used to being unable to follow his best friend's rapid-flash reasoning, John didn't worry too much about what key it was just yet. He'd catch up later. As usual.

Baker, on the other hand, was completely derailed and not a little baffled. He gaped at Sherlock and the consulting detective, exasperated, repeated slowly and clearly, as if speaking to a slow child: "Where - do - you - usually - keep – the – key?"

"Er... the key of the safe, you mean?"

John almost smacked himself, because of course: what other key could be in any way relevant?

"Yes!" huffed Sherlock.

"Oh. ah. There." The man gestured vaguely to a small shelf atop the radiator in the corner. "In that ceramic little box."

John caught a flash of triumph in his friend's eyes. "Hm," said Sherlock, as usual, not giving out anything. And then, out of the blue: "Very well. Tell me about the fight."

"What fight?" asked Baker bemused, looking at the detective as if he'd gone mad under his very eyes.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "The fight you were in."

The other frowned: "But I wasn't..."

John's eyebrows rose. Fight? He scanned Baker's frame: he could spot no sign of a fight – no bruises or scratches or- "Don't lie to me!" snapped Sherlock. "There was a fight here, no more than four days ago! The marks on that desk leg are quite clear and the carpet doesn't entirely hide where glass shards have ruined the parquet – a vase fell, didn't it? Oh, no, it was a lamp – that one over there in the corner, it must have had a stained glass shade, judging from the holder, yet it has nothing but the bulb now, clearly you took off the remaining shards but haven't had time to replace the shade. Yes, there was a scuffle and the lamp was overturned and broke. That would be consistent with the thin scratches all over your arm, too... and with the small glass shards still embedded in the carpet – you should vacuum by the way. The chipped plaster on that wall indicates the door was slammed - twice, I believe - and there are signs on the parquet where the chair was shoved brutally out of the way of someone. Obviously, it was someone in a rage – a male, quite tall, stockier than you: he barged in, probably shouted a lot, nobody was hurt but things were broken, both accidentally and not, then he stormed out. And you've kept sneaking glances to the sofa the whole time I've been talking about this scuffle, it's obvious something happened there that led to the fight so. Tell. Me. About. It!"

"Amazing," breathed John, looking around a bit wide-eyed to spot the signs that were rapidly becoming obvious, now that Sherlock had pointed them out.

Baker seemed suddenly relieved, then embarrassed. "Yeah, um, well. Yeah, there was a- a scuffle – Friday evening that was – but it has nothing to do with my job!" he protested earnestly.

"Oh, really?" asked Sherlock snidely. "Because it took place awfully close to where you keep the key..."

"No, no," Baker shook his head energetically. "It was just – well, Cathy and I – my girlfriend you know – she's brilliant, we have so much in common, I never thought I'd find someone like her, but her father, hum, he... he doesn't really approve of... well – me, basically. And he must have found out she'd sneaked in here to see me and he burst upon us and, well, he... he wasn't well-pleased..." he concluded weakly.

John gave him a sympathetic look.

"Sneaked in here," repeated Sherlock. "Interesting."

"What's interesting?" demanded Baker, on the defensive. "Plenty of people do – parents never understand when their children are ready to live their own lives and-"

"It's interesting that you didn't say 'sneaked out'," said Sherlock, speaking over him unconcernedly.

There was a pause, during which Baker gaped at Sherlock, until John got it: "Her father wasn't the only one to disapprove," he realized aloud. "Your mother objected too, didn't she?"

Baker glowered: "She doesn't understand. Cathy is perfect for me! Mum is just too old-fashioned to..."

"Did she know your girlfriend was here on Friday?" asked Sherlock severely.

John's eyebrows rose. It was beyond unlikely that Sherlock might care for the girl's reputation, so this must be related to the theft somehow. Only he had no clue how.

Baker was embarrassed again: "She climbed in through the window. The Redspire pear there," he gestured vaguely to a sturdy tree John couldn't have told apart from any other leave-less tree in the winter, but whose strong-looking branches grew quite close to the window in question, "is kind of perfect, I've used it countless times myself, since I was a kid..."

"So the window was open?"

"Yes. Well. Just the time to get her in. It's winter, you know."

"Get her in... and kiss her hello?" asked Sherlock slyly.

Baker blushed, then looked defiant: "I don't see what..."

Again the flash of triumph. What, exactly, had Sherlock deduced? Because it was clear he'd got answers to questions John had missed.

"Of course you did. Right there by the window, I'd wager, and closer to the right side of it, where the branch nearly touches the sill, yes, yes, so obvious!" Sherlock waved Baker's feeble protests silent impatiently. "The box with the key was upturned during the fight," he declared, scrutinizing Baker intensely.

Suddenly Baker seemed to get the implication: "Yes, but I found the key immediately!" cried the man, anxious and offended. "It was the first thing I checked! You can't possibly think my Cathy has anything to do with this. I take my responsibilities very seriously, you know! The key was there, it never moved!"

"That it was there, I can believe. That it never moved has still to be proven."

"What?!" The man was again looking lost.

John, for his part, was used enough to Sherlock to be able to put two and two together, but before he could do more than frown, Sherlock snapped: "Let's go, John."

And just like that, the consulting detective was down the stairs and marching out the door into the freezing night, leaving a blinking, bewildered Mr. Baker in his wake.

John threw a hurried apology his way and hastened after his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Sherlock's deduction is a more daunting task than I first believed. Hopefully I did him justice!


	7. Chapter 7

The night had turned even colder, though it wasn't yet snowing, and their footsteps rang out crisply and loudly in the bitter cold.

John shivered and wished he'd had the time, or the foresight, to put on another layer or two of winter wear, because the jumper and jacket he had on weren't at all adequate against the frigid air.

Sherlock strolled on ahead of him, apparently not at all bothered by the cold; he was tapping away at his phone at astounding speed and muttering quietly, whether to John or to himself was anyone's guess.

John chose to think it was addressed to him and tried to focus on the stream of words coming out of his best friend's mouth along with the icy white smoke of his breath. "What did you say?" he asked, rubbing his freezing hands and wrapping himself more tightly in his jacket.

"So much for Mr. Henry Baker. It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatsoever about the matter," grumbled Sherlock, to John's surprise. "And yet! It has to be him. Or rather, his key. There is no other way that key could have been used, and it is certain it was. Both keys were, obviously, or the alarm would have been triggered. There is no way to get around those, not without destroying them. So. Opportunity: the fight, clearly. And of course, it isn't him."

"How can you be sure?" asked John, then, at the dark glare Sherlock shot him, quickly added: "Not doubtful, just curious!"

"Motive, John, motive! Or rather, the lack thereof."

"Surely the money...? Don't tell me he stood to gain all that much from the sale, he's just an employee after all..."

"I believe I proved to you already how money can be a lesser matter than reputation to some."

"Yes, alright, for the retailer, I got that, but Baker? It's not like he owns the place or anything and besides, he's young and all. What makes you so sure..."

"The books, John! The books!"

"What books?"

"The ones that were in his rooms, and perhaps more importantly, the ones that weren't."

John felt rather lost. "There weren't that many books in there," he said slowly, eyes closed in an attempt to remember the room in as much detail as he was able to.

"Precisely!" praised Sherlock. "Mr. Baker is clearly not an avid reader, despite being evidently well-educated. Good schools and decent brains, but no love for the written word – consistent with the number of digital devices in the room: two laptops, one very recently bought, it was in his bag, the other years older; a tablet in use – which showed the interface of a text-to-speech software before the energy saving modality kicked in – clearly he prefers hearing to reading and multimedia texts to printed pages – possibly dyslexic. But then why the books?"

John was rather dazed by his rapid-fire speech, as usual, but tried nonetheless: "They were well-used and didn't look new or... actually, I think there was a library label on a few of them?" he asked more than stated.

When Sherlock didn't answer, or even break his purposeful stride, John forged on: "With what you've just said, I can't imagine he's reading them for pleasure... so maybe he's... studying them?"

Sherlock gave him what might have been an approving nod.

"What for, though?" blurted out John. "Don't tell me he doesn't have a degree yet."

The eye-roll he got this time was definitely not approving. "Honestly, John. Of course he does – didn't you see the certificate on the stairs? Framed and hung by his mother, I'd bet. Bachelor of Arts in Archaeology, of all things," he said disdainfully.

"...Archaeology? Seriously?"

Sherlock snorted.

"Alright, but then why is he studying... er... whatever those books were about?"

Sherlock slanted a Look at him, letting John hear the unvoiced 'idiot' loud and clear, but rattled off: "Clarity-enhancing heat treatments, quality testing of synthetic gemstones, illuminator polariscopes, statistical analysis of market economy, sustainable harvesting."

"I see no pattern," admitted John, a bit distracted by trying to determine whether he knew what a polariscope was.

"All the books had the sticker of a Library – he doesn't spend money on books, clearly he's only taken them because he needs them," Sherlock went on, unabashed. "Pages were creased, then smoothed out hurriedly, probably when he remembers they're not his: clear signs of frustration – it takes him effort to study, consistent with the dyslexia hypothesis, but he does it anyway. Obviously important to him." He frowned briefly. "Understandable, I suppose. Single honours in Archaeology won't get him anywhere, after all, especially in the field he's chosen."

"Which... er... is?"

Sherlock stopped abruptly at the corner they'd just reached and stared at John in disbelief.

Feeling himself reddening, John coughed out a weak: "...Jewellery?"

Sherlock threw an arm up in exasperation: "Gemology, John, gemology! Don't you ever listen?" He flung open the door of the cab that had somehow appeared without John noticing. "Honestly! He _told_ us he was doing jewellery evaluations. A retailer as prestigious as Horner's wouldn't send someone who hasn't got some appraisal training." He held his smartphone up meaningfully. "I checked the requirements for a Graduate Gemologist diploma and they fit with what he's evidently studying."

John followed his friend into the cab, trying not to miss half of the information Sherlock was listing.

"The books confirm that he has invested time and effort in this," the consulting detective was saying. "His obvious pride, the insistence on his integrity, the hints that his employer relies heavily on him, that he's trustworthy on his own... plus, there's the way he chafes at his mother's interference in his love life, but shows no sign of even considering moving out, supposedly perfect girlfriend notwithstanding... Everything in his behaviour says he craves the respect and likely the boost to his earnings he would get for being an _independent_ appraiser, but also that he realizes he isn't ready for it and rather badly needs Horner's as a bump start. After all, it's a a job that involves in equal part education, _networking_ and certification. The last one, he's seeking right now – most likely from the AJA."

John nodded, uncertain.

Sherlock rolled his eyes: "Association of Jewellery Appraisers," he grumbled.

"Oh," John muttered and nodded a little more confidently. Sherlock's train of thoughts was starting to make sense to him: "But the diploma, and the experience, and the qualifications would mean nothing next to being involved in a scandal of this proportion, is that what you're saying?"

"Independent appraisers get most of their business in connection to insurances, they can't afford the slightest scandal, even by association: it gives the insurance companies too much leeway to claim unprofessionalism and downprice or avoid replacing the stolen items. This theft will ruin all of his chances of an independent career. He'll find himself stuck where he is now if he's lucky, pushed down to back-shop clerk more likely, and anyway, completely dependent on his employer-of-the-month's goodwill. No, no amount of money would entice him."

"What if he's just hoping to make a break for it? Go to Switzerland or to the Cayman Islands or I don't know where?" frowned John.

"There isn't the slightest trace of any kind of preparation in that sense," retorted Sherlock, a touch testily. "It would be ridiculous to risk so much without a proper escape plan. People might be idiots but he looked intelligent enough to at least be self-interested. Why defending Mrs. Ravensdale so staunchly if he didn't need her 'impeccable' reputation to be maintained? If he was the culprit, attracting the least amount of attention possible would be the smartest thing to do and he's both clever enough to understand this and dull enough to manage it. But no, he played the knight in shining armour instead, and it wasn't a convoluted attempt to making her a scapegoat either. I gave him a much easier way to throw the cleaning lady to the wolves if he was looking for that, yet he didn't even badmouth her. Why, if his workplace doesn't hold any relevance to his future plan, would he defend it so thoroughly? At a time like this? Obviously he needs the good reputation as a base for his own – ergo, he isn't going anywhere."

Sherlock shook his head slightly: "There is also no evidence of any compelling reason why he'd need the money in a hurry, and plenty of opportunity for smaller thefts, far less damaging to his career, if that was the case. Like I said, it's quite obvious that he knows nothing of the matter."

"Amazing," breathed John.

Sherlock smiled faintly, pleased, though his eyes had returned to his phone and didn't leave it.

"It's weird though," mused John. "I mean, you've practically proven that money isn't a motive in this case. Which is... yeah. _Weird._ I mean, it's a jewel. What else could it be?"

Sherlock scoffed: "I have merely proved that money would not have been a motive for two possible suspects. It's hardly a universal truth. You have to consider that the gem isn't easily disposed of on the market, though," he hummed. "It's peculiar – hence, well-recognizable. There is the black market... but it's still a huge risk, one that not many would be willing to run. Unless you'd pass it off as a more common, though still precious, colour-changing garnet. Which would reduce its value considerably – garnets that small can only gain upwards to a tenth of the true value of the Blue Carbuncle. But why go to the lengths and risks of such a theft only to get so little in return? There are three other garnets they could have more easily stolen in that jewellery alone!"

"Then... what?" asked John, feeling completely lost.

"Two options. A collector willing to pay _anything_ for it, for the sole purpose of having it. Or, blackmail. In either case, our Mr. Baker has more to lose than to gain from it."

The cab stopped at 221 Baker Street and John had to scramble to pay and run after Sherlock, who was already up the stairs. "Wait, what do you mean, blackmail?"

Sherlock made an impatient swish of his hand. "I told you how the owner would be ruined. She has eight days. By the seventh, she'll likely be so desperate as to pay anything they ask of her."

John stopped abruptly. "God!" he breathed.

Sherlock went in, apparently without noticing he was leaving his blogger behind: "Which is why I think they must have a peculiarly secure hiding spot. They wouldn't have risked it otherwise."

"The goose," muttered John, fighting down a grin as he ran up the stairs to catch up with Sherlock's long strides.

The consulting detective threw him a dark look as he removed his scarf.

John smothered his chuckle and hurriedly asked: "So who do you think it is?"

"Too soon to say."

John rolled his eyes: "Yes, yes, obviously, but, you know. You must have a lead."

"Oh, must I?"

John blinked at the unexpectedly teasing tone, then mock-glared: "Don't give me that. I saw the triumph in your eyes. You got an idea, and he confirmed it for you, and now you're going to follow up on it, so tell me!"

Sherlock faltered for all but an instant, shooting a strange, vaguely amazed gaze at John, but recovered his poise immediately: "It can't be him, yet it has to be – solution: he's being used. This 'Cathy' is the most likely suspect." Sherlock flopped down on the couch, looking incredibly self-satisfied.

Several long seconds went by with nothing to break the silence except the usual sounds of London outside, and of John puttering around the kettle inside.

Carefully, the blogger worked it all out in his head, already trying out a few sentences for the post he would eventually write: "You think the scuffle was the perfect opportunity to... no, wait," he changed his mind mid-sentence, "not to _get_ the key – he told us he checked immediately and it was there – but... return it?" he hazarded.

"Oh, well done, John!"

The doctor smiled, inordinately pleased. "So our next move is tracking down this Cathy?" He brought out the two mugs and settled himself in his armchair.

"It would, if she existed, of which I am not at all certain," was the unexpected reply.

John gaped: "Excuse me?"

"Oh, Mr. Baker believes her real and in love, of course, but I have my doubts." Sherlock waved his phone at him: "I can't find anything on her, for starters."

John levelled an unimpressed look at him.

Sherlock scowled: "Really, John. A girl like that, without a Facebook account? Unlikely. Extremely so."

John scoffed: "Not everybody is fond of social networks, Sherlock."

"Perhaps so, but nowadays, they're essential, especially for someone her supposed age. Peer pressure should have talked her into it, if nothing else. Yet there is no trace of any Catherine Cusak on the net."

"Maybe she's using an alias," ventured John reasonably. "Lots of people don't use their real names on Facebook. You, for instance," he said pointedly. "Wait, how do you know her name, anyway?"

"Don't you think I've considered that? I'm checking _his_ account."

"...What?"

"Baker's, John, Baker's. Do pay attention! His Facebook profile was updated just over an hour ago. And it's pretty detailed: more information than most would post. There are also links to a Friends Reunited account and a tumblr one. He clearly enjoys social networks. His status shows him 'in a relationship with Catherine Cusak'," he shot John a triumphant look and the doctor grimaced in acknowledgement, "yet there is no link to a Facebook page for her. Ergo, his partner doesn't have a Facebook account." He narrowed his eyes at the phone. "Extremely suspicious."

"Maybe she's against?" tried John, feeling as if he were grasping at straws, but stubborn enough to be thorough. "You know, one of those who think internet's bad for society. Er. That it..." he tried to remember one of Tornwell's typical tirades: "...enables terrorists to discover recipes for making fertiliser bombs... regroup faster than police forces are able to anticipate... or, you know... that it may be a communications mechanism for paedophiles..."

"If she were, he wouldn't have told us that they had 'similar tastes'," retorted Sherlock testily. "He obviously isn't a sportive man, he's no musician or artist, the number of books in that room of his was appallingly low and there were no magazines except a few numbers of Gemstones he probably brought home from work. What does that tell you?"

"That... he leads a rather boring life?"

"Precisely! Now what 'interests' could they share, if he doesn't have any?"

"But he likes using computers. You remarked on how many... oh. You think that must have been what drew them together."

"Well done, John," said Sherlock in an infuriatingly condescending tone. "Now you see that Miss Cusak's absence from the web is puzzling."

John sighed, conceding defeat – though rather less grudgingly than he pretended: "Yeah, yeah. So... what now?"

"Nothing."

A moment of stunned silence.

"Really?" John asked weakly.

"There is nothing more we can do. We need to find this Catherine Cusak and we simply don't have enough data for it. Nothing we've gathered so far can be trusted, since she was obviously trying to con that Baker. Hopefully she'll make a mistake, but so far, she hasn't." He seemed almost pleased by it. "I'll put the word out with my homeless network, though I doubt it'll yield any result. Meanwhile I'll text Gregson about her. He's moved to the Police Central e-crime Unit – let him make himself useful for a change. I need to think anyway. This case is extremely well thought-out."

He trailed off in what John privately called Sherlock's admiration-for-psychopaths tone.

The doctor finished his tea, unbothered by being ignored. There was simply no distracting the consulting detective from his inner contemplation of the criminals' all-too-rare intelligence when he got like this.

Before he went up to bed, he glanced back carelessly: "And if nothing comes up?" he asked, not really expecting an answer.

"I'll have all the time to break into the MET's database myself, eventually. Or Mycroft's."

John groaned.


	8. Chapter 8

**Part II**

The morning after, John woke to the irritating sound of his cell phone ringing.

He groaned and tried to bury himself under his pillow, but he knew from the start that it was a losing battle. Then again, he mused philosophically while he glared bleary-eyed at the stupid little black box that wouldn't stop ringing, at least he'd got a good night sleep. No sudden wake-up calls by over-excited consulting detectives; no loud and totally unwarranted demands for tea or nicotine; not even three a.m. impromptu violin screeching. Just blissful sleep – during a case, no less.

He should probably count himself lucky, right?

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," he mumbled to the still-ringing thing and he forced himself up and out of his warm, comfortable blankets. "You'd better have had a breakthrough, Sherlock, because if you're just going to complain about boredom, so help me..."

John's half-hearted grumbling died off as he picked the thing up and simultaneously woke up enough to remember that Sherlock never called if he could text instead.

Sure enough, it wasn't him, but Sarah; her voice was apologetic and pleading at once: "I know you weren't supposed to come in today, John, but Samuel called in sick and we really need the help. Half the temps are down with the flu as it is and with Tornwell having already left for his holidays..."

John's head filled with vision of Sherlock pouting, or worse, throwing a tantrum, at the news that he wouldn't be 'assisting' him today. But although his and Sarah's relationship was a late and largely unlamented thing of the past, she still had the power to guilt-trip him into almost anything if she but tried. He sighed: "Of course. I'll be right there, just... let me grab some breakfast."

Sarah's voice filled with warmth: "Thank you, John! The sooner you come the better, though. I'm sorry, but we're really swamped. Dr. St. Clair can come for the afternoon shift, though, she already agreed. I promise, John, it's only for a few hours!"

"Of course." He half-smiled, even if she couldn't see him, and tried to convince himself that it would all be fine.

John tossed the phone on the blankets and stretched. He could be back in a couple hours. Even Sherlock couldn't really object, could he?

Well, of course he could, and being Sherlock, likely would, but he shouldn't. There.

Showering and changing quickly, he made his way down the stairs, wondering what Sherlock was up to. The utter silence could mean, with equal probability, that he hadn't noticed the time going by and was still in the exact same position John had left him in the night before, or that he'd long gone out, following some lead or other. Either would be typical.

But of course, the moment John started thinking of Sherlock as predictable, his flatmate went and destroyed the idea.

John froze in the doorstep, staring wide-eyed at Sherlock, who was perched on the table (on the table!) in a crouch, like an overgrown bat, and was glaring at some biscuits.

John blinked.

Yep, definitely biscuits.

The round, fragrant, home-baked kind – cinnamon and ginger, if he wasn't mistaken. Goldish-brown and inviting. They had Mrs. Hudson's touch all over.

He blinked again.

Yep, Sherlock was glaring at them. As if they had personally offended him. A quick scan of the kitchen showed a mess of unwashed dishes, sticky streaks and crumpled kitchen papers, but no other possible object of Sherlock's ire.

"Sherlock?" John asked cautiously.

No answer.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

Silence only.

John thought it over and tried another approach: "What did those biscuits do?"

Still no answer.

A rather more worrisome hypothesis surfaced in John's mind: "What are they supposed to do?" he asked, voice filled with sudden wariness. God help him, if Sherlock had tried his hands at explosive biscuits...!

But no, still no reaction. Not an experiment, then. Sherlock wouldn't miss the chance of bragging about an experiment.

John pondered the situation a moment longer, then made a snap decision: "Right, well, Sarah called, they need someone for a few hours, so I'm going in. I won't be long though, and you can text me if you want us to meet up somewhere, ok?"

Silence still reigned.

Starting to get alarmed, he scanned his surroundings a little more carefully, but nothing amiss stood out. The usual clutter everywhere, improbably balanced books, the remains of the bleach, ice, and acetone Sherlock had used to prove homemade chloroform was the key to that case with the missing husband and the waterlogged wagon he should remember to write about, more scattered papers than last week and probably less than the next, the familiar skull, two crumpled nicotine patches abandoned on the floor half below the couch...

He could spot no clues to Sherlock's latest craziness – or the case for that matter. It was worrisome. John debated briefly whether to bring it up, then sighed in resignation and reached for his jacket.

"John."

He stopped cold. "Yes?" he asked warily.

"Those biscuits." Sherlock's tone was clipped and he was still glaring at the incriminated baked goods.

John gulped quietly. "Yeah...?" he asked even more warily.

"They're good."

A long pause ensued.

"Wonderful," said finally John in the careful tone of someone who doesn't see the point.

Suddenly, the immobile gargoyle on the table animated in a burst of flailing limbs and sheer energy. "No, John, you don't understand!" shouted Sherlock agitatedly. "They're _good._ I like them. They make me want to _eat_ them." Even though he was now pacing, the consulting detective hadn't stopped glaring at the innocent-looking plate.

"...Biscuits do that," commented John in a half-strangled tone that was really his best attempt at fighting laughter.

"Food has no meaning," retorted Sherlock, sounding almost offended.

John watched him in amused disbelief. He very briefly considered ignoring the absurd situation, but friendship won out. "But you enjoy Angelo's, don't you?" he pointed out kindly.

"I enjoy the convenience of the place, the opportunity it offers, and the helpfulness of the man himself. Although its quality is far superior to most other restaurants in London," Sherlock conceded magnanimously, "the food itself has no relevance."

"Oh. Ehm. But these biscuits do?"

"They're good. They're better than good. Why are they so good?"

John wondered how to navigate this newest and utterly unexpected facet of Sherlock's weird relationship with the world at large. "I'm not sure I follow, Sherlock."

"I asked Mrs. Hudson. There is no secret ingredient, as is often the case with family recipes. I tried my hand at it" – that explained the mess in the kitchen, thought John – "but the result wasn't comparable."

God, had the mad genius dragged the poor woman out of bed at an ungodly hour for this? John really hoped not. He valliantly tried to insist: "Well, you can't expect to get them right on the first try..."

"Ridiculous. Cooking is no overly complicated science, John, regardless of what your less than stellar attempts might lead you to believe."

John scowled.

"I followed the recipe exactly. It produced what it promised – biscuits." His mad flatmate gestured annoyedly at another plate, on the counter.

"They look excellent, Sherlock. Maybe you should cook more often."

"Don't be idiotic, John. And they're not good enough."

John considered his friend carefully: "Mrs. Hudsons' biscuits are better?"

"Yes!"

"Well, she has more experience, Sherlock," he pointed out evenly. "Please don't tell me you resent her for being better than you at cooking, because that'd be quite absurd." Though not entirely out of character for Sherlock's perfectionism.

Sherlock wrenched his glare from the poor biscuits and transferred it solidly to John. "It makes no sense," he bit out. "We followed the same recipe. We performed the same acts, added the same ingredients at the same times. Waited the same intervals. Used the same temperatures, we're even in similar enough kitchens that there should be no difference between our end products. Yet there is. I analysed them with my microscope. No difference can be recognized. _Yet there is._ "

John swallowed his laughter. "Ah, well, you know what they say."

The glare turned into a confused look: "No, I don't."

"Ehm... because they're made with the heart?"

Sherlock gave him a genuinely baffled look: "They're biscuits, John. They're made with flour and eggs and other ingredients. Hearts have nothing to do with it."

John sighed, knowing he'd walked into that one: "Figure of speech, Sherlock," he said with fond weariness. "I meant that Mrs. Hudson cares for you and made a special effort with them! And you know it and care for her too – even if you'll never admit it – so they taste better than if someone else had made them, or God forbid, they were bought."

Sherlock's eyes, who had turned once more to the unfortunate biscuits, were again lifted to John instead, in a kind of pitying incredulity: "That," Sherlock said very precisely, "is the most unscientific reasoning I have ever had the displeasure of listening to."

John gave him a flat look: "I seriously doubt that."

"Oh, so you're allowed to use metaphors but I am not allowed to use hyperboles?" challenged Sherlock.

John just sighed again, shaking his head fondly: "Just eat the biscuits, Sherlock."

He was fairly sure he'd heard mutters of 'making no sense' as he went out. But he managed to get round the corner before letting his laughter burst forth.


	9. Chapter 9

Christmas was everywhere, filling every shop window and spilling joyously into the streets; the icy air that seemed to cut off the tips of the fingers from hands and feet was not enough of a deterrent for the crowds of festive people bustling about, even this early in the morning.

John's grin didn't look at all out of place today, which was good, because he couldn't quite keep it down. Sherlock could be hilarious at times. He couldn't believe he'd gone and compared the biscuits under a microscope... actually yes, he could totally believe that.

It was strange, though, that the detective would spend his time in such a way when there was a case on. Or had he solved it already? No, he would have dragged John out of bed in the deep of the night, had that happened. Instead, there had been no word about it at all. It was beyond odd; and maybe worrying. The last time Sherlock had pretended to not be working on a case...

John stopped and took a deep breath to dispel the memory-smell of chlorine, and determinedly pushed down his unease. Sherlock wouldn't. Not again. He had to believe that.

Besides, 'odd' was practically Sherlock's default mode: it would certainly be more worrisome if he behaved like the average Tom, Dick or Harry. The whole biscuits-thing was adorable-odd rather than creepy-odd, too, if one was inclined to count their blessings. And it might mean that the git would eat, which was a big, big plus in John's book – even if it was only biscuits.

His grin returned.

He got to the clinic in no time at all and chuckled at the half-torn and muddied red Christmas hat that Andrews, one of Sherlock's homeless, was wearing while begging. It split at the top like a buffoon hat; a legless reindeer dangled sadly from one of the points and a pendant of the transgender symbol from another. Considering Andrews' habit of yelling inappropriate propositions after those who didn't give him anything, regardless of age or gender, it was perhaps appropriate.

He called out a greeting to Ms. Martin, the pretty lawyer the clinic had on retainer, and got a cheerful wave in return as she went by. The day was looking up.

And then his good mood vanished abruptly as if sucked out of him like air by a punch to the solar plexus.

The stand was manned by the surly one, Brittany, and she looked... battered.

Not much, thankfully, and mostly it was light contusions that would do little damage and should heal nearly completely within two weeks, even if some of them would probably swell; but that didn't really make it better. He winced when he caught sight of the purplish marks badly hidden by her bright green scarf.

She noticed his look, scowled, tightened the scarf and drew a lock of hair forward to hide the bruises on the side of her face with harsh, angry and – John sighed – well-practised movements.

"Don't go thinking stupid things, Doctor," she sneered before he could even say a word. "I had a nightmare and fell out of bed, is all. Hit myself against the night stand, didn't even hurt, just woke me up. Then this morning I had the bruises, but I swear, if anyone else asks if it was Sean I'm going to scream! He didn't, he wouldn't ever, you're all a bunch of idiots!"

She stormed off to the clients at the other end of the stand and John closed his eyes, pained.

They may well be a bunch of idiots, but they were idiots trained in medicine, after all. They could tell the difference between contusions caused by a bump, a scrape, an injection... and those caused by blows. And there was really no way a night-stand could have left finger-shaped bruises on her neck.

So he whipped out his smartphone and as the girl was distracted by a mother-of-three and her squealing offspring, he discreetly shot a short video, mentally thanking Sherlock for sort-of-inadvertently training him for this kind of sneaky evidence gathering.

She turned to him again with a ferocious scowl and he just knew that if he pressed the matter he would be fed some line about her bruising easily and nothing more; so he just handed over the money for his two trinkets as usual and then walked briskly inside the clinic, where he sent the video to Sherlock.

_Claims to have fallen out of bed due to nightmares. Am suspecting abusive boyfriend instead. Thoughts?_

The reply came a lot sooner than he expected. The jewellery case must be really at a standstill. Or John had missed something important; but he really, really hoped not.

Two messages pinged in quick succession.

_Dull. Extremely so. SH_

_Abusive father, not boyfriend. Obviously. SH_

John rolled his eyes.

_Not THAT obvious. How do you figure?_

A pause, then messages started arriving faster than John could read them:

_No bruises on the wrists: she wasn't restrained by a lover. No difficulty in walking/standing: no angry sex afterwards. Not boyfriend. SH_

_Favours shoulder: gripped by someone used to being bigger, who feels a right to hurt her. If not sexual, sense of entitlement can only be parental. SH_

_Not looking over her shoulders nervously: can predict when needs to be afraid. Not recent development like mother's new husband/boyfriend. SH_

_Lies easily, competent in misdirection: is used to it. Yet no claims of clumsiness/distraction. Not trying to justify: raised to think it his right. SH_

_Abused since childhood. Definitely father. SH_

John read it all avidly, stunned by the level of observation and deduction Sherlock could cram in twenty seconds of poorly shot video.

_Amazing. As usual. Letting Sarah contact Social Service._

He paused for barely a moment before sending another text: _Leftovers in the microwave. Do eat._

_Don't be stupid. I'm on a case. SH_

It was perhaps a bit not good, that his first reaction to that was of relief that Sherlock was discussing the case again. Maybe he wasn't excluding John and doing something idiotic behind his back after all; maybe he'd just been distracted by the biscuits-thing.

Then he went over the texts once more and sighed deeply, feeling a little ill as he considered what they told of Brittany's situation. It was depressing to say the least. He shook himself grimly: these things happened, as much as he wished otherwise and thankfully, this time he was in a position to do something about it.

Sarah and he were finishing writing up his observations and Sherlock's for the investigation that was surely about to start when his phone pinged again.

His heart sunk even lower as he read the text: _Kidnapped child. Might need a doctor when found. 98 George St. Come at once. SH_

Numbly, he showed it to Sarah. She paled: "Go," she told him instantly. "Go immediately."

John nodded grimly and went.


	10. Chapter 10

The crime scene turned out to be, rather unexpectedly, a mall complex: a flourishing, bustling one by the looks of it.

Police officers were swarming in and out and John distractedly greeted a few acquaintances that were trying to push back the crowd of gawking and gossiping onlookers. To John's rather disgusted disbelief, he heard not a few grumblings about being unable to complete their shopping; along with, of course, deprecations about the police's incompetence, security failures, and what a horrid times these were.

How could a child have been snatched away here, under everybody's nose? How could no-one notice?

D.I. Lestrade emerged from the double doors, looking grim; a moment later, Sherlock came out behind him like a whirlwind and almost immediately spotted John: “Where were you! You missed a most interesting development!” he shouted, garnering a number of scandalized looks.

John ignored the increased volume of whispers and hurried to his friend, wide eyed: “Development? This has to do with the case? The missing carbuncle?”

“Only insomuch as it will fill the time until I can finally do something for it,” said Sherlock matter-of-factly. “All my traps are set, have been since last night, but it is unlikely they will be sprung before a few days go by. Oh, this is excellent!”

“Sherlock!” rebuked Lestrade. “This cannot, under any kind of context, be classified as excellent! And what the hell do you mean, traps? What have you done this time?”

“Never mind,” was the curt response. Sherlock grabbed John unceremoniously and dragged him back inside, where colourful, festive lights blinked frantically from just about every corner and kitschy trinkets seemed to have sprouted out spontaneously on any and all available surfaces.

Their cheerfulness grated on John's nerves unexpectedly, appearing cold and fake and wrong through the glasses of his worry. Sherlock, of course, wasn't affected in the least: “John, I need your opinion. What could be used to knock a child out in seconds? The woman came out again in less than three minutes, with the child asleep on her shoulder, it must have been something instantaneous...”

The doctor however was distracted by noticing a small gaggle of policemen crowding a weeping woman, who'd collapsed on a low counter as if boneless.

“Babysitter,” snapped Sherlock curtly, glowering at John for his inattention; at the inquisitive look he received, the consulting detective made an exasperated groan and spit out: “She was the one looking after the child; says the brat was throwing a tantrum, so she thought it smart to leave the girl she was in charge of alone in an aisle, to 'teach her a lesson', reportedly. I imagine she expected to be immediately followed by a contrite and repentant little brat and when this didn't happen, she panicked. Now she's terrified she'll be charged with neglect, so she's chosen to go into hysterics rather than be of any use. John, the sedative!”

“Right, of course. Sorry. Er.” Holding his questions for the time being, John thought briefly: “There are a few possibility I suppose. Generally, the narcotics favoured by criminals – thieves and the like – are the halogenated ethers. Halothane, cyclopropane... you can find them in any A&E and it is not exactly uncommon, unfortunately, for a few bottles to go missing here and there.”

“But that's for breaking and entering, John,” Sherlock cut him off impatiently. “Those ethers cannot be used in liquid form, they must be vaporized; they're most suitable for being spread in a bedroom, keeping the victims asleep while you rob them blind. I'm talking about something quick and discreet, with only the child as a target.”

“An inhaler would work for that – and you can buy those at a chemist's,” pointed out John.

“Not an injection?” asked Sherlock, frowning. “I would have thought some benzodiazepines, or even an antihistamine...”

“A shot? To a child?” John raised his eyebrows, a little amused. “Only if you want the building to be brought down by their screams. Trust me, I have administered enough vaccinations to know that even the most angelic toddler will screech like a banshee as soon as needles are brought into the equation. If you want the child to go down quietly, inhalational anaesthesia is the best bet.”

Sherlock blinked, but accepted this. “Isoflurane, then? That would act quickly.”

“Doubtful. It's not used very often anymore, at least not in human medicine, because its pungency can irritate the respiratory system, negating the advantage of rapid onset. If they used that, they likely have access to a veterinarian clinic.”

“Intresting,” muttered Sherlock, his eyes narrowing in thought.

“Hospitals and clinics use sevoflurane or desulfurane for mask induction, but they're costly, even if they're now available as generic drugs,” John went on, quickly and precisely; “and anyway they're rather used for maintaining a state of anaesthesia that has been induced with another drug, such as intravenous anaesthetic propofol. Which is perhaps easier to get, but would require a needle. That's why I thought of cyclopropane: it's relatively potent, non-irritating and sweet smelling, it would be effective rapidly and not unpleasant.”

“Doesn't that bring the risk of cardiac dysrhythmia? That would mean they're not invested in keeping the child alive; which makes little sense.”

“Halothane, then – or Fluothane, if you want the trademarked name.”

“Ah, yes,” muttered Sherlock. “General anaesthetic containing bromine as well as the usual fluorine and chlorine. Probably easier to obtain. Definitely cheaper.”

“Correct. In developed countries it has been largely discarded in favour of newer anaesthetic agents, but since it's considered a core medicine in the Essential Drugs List of WHO; basically, even the most basic health care systems are supposed to have it; there are a lot of community-based organizations involved in sending drugs to developing countries that might provide it, willingly or not.” John paused a moment: “And of course, there's always chloroethane. That's recreational – an aphrodisiac.”

Sherlock nodded sharply: “Duster.”

“Exactly. Except that it can be an anaesthetic also, depending on the dosage. If they've got ties to the criminal underworld, well, they might have easier access to it than anything. Might well be the most likely choice.”

“Hmm,” muttered Sherlock with a faraway gaze.

Leaving him to his thinking, John asked to nobody in particular: “So the kid was knocked out? And no-one noticed? Really?”

“As impossible as it sounds, that's what happened,” replied Lestrade, who'd joined them again. “Security cameras recorded everything, of course, but for one, there aren't any in the restrooms, obviously, and for two, well...” he suddenly looked embarrassed.

Perplexed, John waited.

“What the Detective Inspector is loath to admit, is that the security personnel in this mall is a bunch of blind idiots, and their MET counterparts aren't much better,” snorted Sherlock. “Come along, John. This line of investigation is useless, after all. Too many possibilities; it would be a waste of time to follow up on every one.”

Lestrade sighed as they all moved to follow Sherlock yet again and reluctantly gave John something more: “It took us watching the video feeds three times to recognize the abduction. We... well, to be honest, we were looking for something amiss. Something forced, an interaction not-quite-smooth, something that stood out. Instead...”

“Instead, the cameras – and all the witnesses report the same, I might add – have picked up only a young, nondescript woman taking the child in question by hand quite naturally, talking to her with the mix of fondness and scolding of a thousand other parents, giving her a pink-clad monstrosity...”

_Doll_ , Lestrade mouthed silently to John.

“...and steering her to the restroom, while saying something about washing up, or getting a cold, depending on which nosy old lady that was nearby you ask.” Sherlock made a flamboyant gesture with his hand. “ _Et voilà!_ An excellent example of sleight of hand – metaphorically speaking. It was all so natural, so normal, that nobody thought anything of it. They just assumed that it was a perfectly regular mother and child shopping trip.”

John smiled wanly. It was hard to tell whether Sherlock was more disgusted by the ordinary scene he'd described or by what he no doubt declared 'the idiocy of assumptions'. What was clear, was that he was severely displeased with everybody else's poor observational skills. But then, that wasn't anything new.

“Sherlock was the one who realized the child didn't know the woman in question, we'd all been convinced it was a relative until that point,” added Lestrade.

“Completely ridiculous!” spat Sherlock, throwing his arms in the air and launching himself dramatically out the exit. “The body language is all wrong. You never observe!” he cried back.

Looking torn between sheepishness and annoyance, Lestrade finally settled for ignoring the consulting detective and just followed him out. As they walked, he asked John quietly: “Do you think the girl will have troubles because of the narcotic they used on her?”

John shook his head reassuringly: “Mostly, the risk of complications arises only if the usage is prolonged, no matter what they used.”

“Meaning that we have to find her quickly,” sighed Lestrade. “But then, we already knew that.” The D.I. ran a tired hand over his face, groaning.

John heard him muttering “This is a nightmare...” and squeezed his arm reassuringly: “Don't worry. Sherlock will find the child,” he said with absolute faith.

Lestrade grimaced, though maybe he had been trying to smile.

“Of course I'll find her,” came Sherlock's arrogant tone, pitched to carry. “Lestrade, stop wallowing and get me the CCTV of Gloucerster Place, Portman Close, and just in case, Blandford Street as well.”

“What?”

“The car, Lestrade, the car! Or the van!” shouted Sherlock, already stalking away. “But no, it will be a car. She's playing the loving mother with sleepy child. Clever. Who'd give them a second glance? Find out where that car has gone!”

“Sherlock, what bloody car!?”

Twirling to a halt, Sherlock visibly ground his teeth against the stupidity of the world at large: “Surely you don't expect them to have taken her away on foot? Even your idiotic men would have been able to find her by now if they'd been so stupid. Obviously, they had a means of transport! Dear God, what is it like to trudge through life with a barely functioning brain, I wonder?”

He pivoted away and started berating the closest unfortunate about finding out something or other, leaving John and the D.I. to grimace together in long-suffering resignation.

Lestrade shot off a text to Donovan about Sherlock's request and turned to John again: “Hopefully this will provide a better lead than the woman's image on the security cameras. We're running it in all our databases anyway, but Sherlock is sure that nothing will come up. In his words, she's far too good an actress to have made mistakes with her disguise. God, I just hope we'll find the little girl soon.”

John hesitated, trying to force himself to say what was in his mind: “Is it... do you expect it's about...” he couldn't bring himself to voice it, but managed a strangled: “...slavery?”

Lestrade's look was black. “Sexual abuse, you mean?” He paused a moment, then reluctantly answered: “They usually target children from broken families, most of all; families not likely to look for them. It heightens the risk, if the child is searched for, or worse, they have reason to try and escape...” Lestrade trailed off, his voice bleak.

“Not the case here, then?” asked John quietly.

“Doesn't seem so,” answered Lestrade. “We scanned the family immediately, you see, and not only because we thought the girl was familiar with her kidnapper. It's routine in such situations. Nine times out of ten, if a child is abducted in broad daylight and with dozens of possible witnesses, it is a relative. Like a divorced parent who didn't get custody of the child, you know? But in this case, the father is a widower and there is no extended family, unless you count a paralytic grandmother or some cousins they never see who live somewhere in Canada.”

“So that leaves a completely unrelated stranger as the culprit,” murmured John, barely looking at the D.I.

He was keeping an eye on Sherlock, who was moving about in a jerky, vaguely disconcerting way that would look random if John didn't know better. Sherlock in data-gathering mode was never random.

“Well, a couple of my men are scanning friends and acquaintances of the father, just to be thorough, but with Sherlock being convinced that it is, indeed, a stranger...” Lestrade's tone was almost apologetic.

“...it's likely to be a stranger,” nodded John, understandingly. “For ransom?”

He felt more than see the D.I. shaking his head: “Unlikely. The father isn't nor has ever been wealthy. He works as a zoo biologist, I can't imagine him ever getting his hands on anything someone would possibly want to blackmail him for. Can you?”

John hummed non-committally. He really had only far too vague an idea of what a zoo biologist even was, to venture an opinion. Sherlock was now zeroing his piercing gaze here and there, lowering and raising his upper body and angling his head in different ways. John concluded that the consulting detective was calculating trajectories, though of what, he couldn't begin to guess.

“Of course, there is the illegal adoption possibility, but that usually follows abductions of babies from hospitals,” mused Lestrade. “Bastards who're willing to go outside the proper channels are most often morons who don't want it known they've adopted, so they ask for babies, rather than older children – and the girl is four.”

A short, sturdy policewoman came up to them with a stack of printed pictures, informing Lestrade that they had already started sticking the flyers in the nearby area and were about to pass them out to the search teams of volunteers that were turning up and sort-of organizing themselves, and to the press as well.

“Here, look,” Lestrade handed the print to John, who gasped loudly: “I know her!”

A moment of paralysed silence followed his outburst, the closest constables turning from their various tasks to stare at him.

“She's one of my patients, her father brought her to the clinic yesterday morning.” He searched his memory for the name. “...Melanie, right? Melanie Horton?”

Sherlock was giving him the peculiar, intensely focused look he always got when John somehow managed to surprise him.

Before anyone could react further, though, Donovan burst out of the mall, her mobile phone glued to her ear, and shouted: “Another one! There's been another kidnapping!”


	11. Chapter 11

In an instant, they were all around her.

“Another girl?” asked Sherlock, almost disbelievingly. “This is starting to get interesting. Same age as the other one?”

Donovan shot him an unfriendly gaze, but for once avoided antagonizing him: “Nope, a little older, she's seven.”

“Family situation?”

“Still checking. The call just came in – a panicked grandmother. A man who posed as an employee of the Royal Mail arrived with a very bulky package; she believed it a Christmas present being delivered and let him in so that he could put it down inside the sitting room...”

A snort interrupted her: “Idiot.”

Donovan glared.

“It's a standard scam!” insisted Sherlock, disparagingly. “She should have known better.”

Donovan flared up with indignation: “She's just lost her granddaughter to a criminal! Watched him snatch her up and run for it while she couldn't stop him! Can't you show a little human compassion?”

“She wouldn't have lost the child if she hadn't been so stupid as to let a kidnapper into her home,” he pointed out hauntingly.

“She couldn't have known!”

“She should have. It's a classic, really. Aren't old people warned against impersonators on a regular basis? I'm sure I've been subjected to promotional drivels on the matter. Although,” he added, somewhat magnanimously, “these particular criminals have proved to be con artists of high skill. I suppose I can grant her that.”

The Detective Sergeant recoiled with disgust: “God, you say that as if you approve of them!”

“Sherlock,” muttered John in warning – to no avail.

“I appreciate skill, no matter the field it is displayed in,” replied the genius, coldly.

Donovan hissed: “You're such a freak!” and Lestrade finally intervened brusquely: “Sherlock, are you sure the culprits are the same?”

“No, of course not. Not enough data yet. It is likely though. Surely you notice the points of similarity?”

There was a silence just long enough to make the answer clear and Sherlock's jaw dropped in yet another instance of his everlasting surprise at people's obliviousness: “Skilfully impersonating an utterly normal character? Brazenly snatching a child under a caretaker's nose? Disregarding the likelihood of the police being involved very quickly? You don't see there's similarity between the two cases?”

“Well, no, not really,” Lestrade finally said, “but if you're sure... I just want to find those girls quickly and if we can narrow our search somehow, I'm all for it.”

“But, sir!” protested Donovan. “Surely we must consider other possibilities!”

“So long as you do it on your own, rather than wasting my time. Lestrade, what's the address?” Sherlock spoke over her without a care. “And I still want those video feeds.”

Another momentary pause.

“...What?” asked the D.I. warily.

“The address, Lestrade, the address! I must see the place if you want me to deduce anything, I can't very well take a guess based on” – a heart-bit – “ _unreliable_ information.”

He slanted a nasty gaze at Donovan at that and got a furious snarl and a narrow look for it.

“Right, right. Whatever,” Lestrade said hurriedly. “Gibson will take you there.” He pushed forth a middle-aged, portly constable with a square face and a thin white scar parting one of his eyebrows.

Sherlock scowled: “No. I will not take a police car. Just give me the address and we'll take a cab there!”

“For once in your life, could you not be difficult?” snapped the D.I. “I don't care about your foibles. Those girls are the priority now!”

“If they were, you wouldn't waste my time insisting that-”

“Wait, Sherlock, wait. That's not important. Are they...” John floundered a moment. “What on Earth are these criminals after? A girl in a mall might be picked at random, but this other one was at home... she must have been targeted, right? What do they want with them? Are we to expect more kidnappings?”

Donovan gasped, as if the idea hadn't occurred to her.

“Should we warn... well... someone?” John finished lamely.

“Should we involve the press?” asked Gibson far too eagerly.

“Absolutely not!” half-shouted Lestrade. “We'd have a nationwide wave of panic on our hands!”

“Sir, a Child Rescue Alert is on...”

“A what?” asked John.

“Emergency system that sends out notification that a child is missing,” explained Donovan briefly. “It's been implemented since 2010: the idea is to coordinate the response by emergency services and media if a child is abducted.”

“Basically,” said Lestrade, running a hand through his hair, “all radio and television broadcasts in the area of the abduction are immediately interrupted with a bulletin to ask the public to keep their eyes and ears open for anything that may help us find the child and tell them what to be on the lookout for. Same with matrix signs on major roads. Which is great, yes; telling people their daughters might be kidnapped too, on the other hand, is really not.”

“The information is also texted to the mobile phones of individuals who have signed up to the project,” added Donovan.

“How did I not know of this?” wondered John, already thinking of signing up.

“It's not going to do any good if you don't have sufficient information to enable the public to assist you in locating the child,” remarked Sherlock snidely. “If you had any sense at all, this bulletin of yours would alert all city districts to be on the lookout for their car – the one you haven't yet identified, that is,” he finished with a meaningful glare at Lestrade.

“Sherlock, there is someone on the task, I promise you...”

The consulting detective sniffed and looked down on the constables still milling about with haughtiness: “I suppose that's the best that can be expected of you. I sincerely doubt those two will be caught so easily, but you never know. Criminals are stupid after all. Only, since you've failed to look for the car after the first kidnapping, in spite of my insistence, it might well be that you will let them get away with it again-”

“Oh, for God's sake!” exploded the D.I. “Fine. Fine! We'll find the damned car!” he shouted.

“Why do you say two?” asked John.

Momentarily abandoning the glaring contest he and Lestrade were engaged in, Sherlock turned to him with a vague: “Hmm?”

The D.I. half-screamed in exasperation and stalked away, hair, clothes and limbs flapping about him in frustration.

“You said 'two',” elaborated John punctiliously. “ 'I doubt those two will be caught so easily', you said.”

“Oh, it's quite obvious that there are two of them. Lines of sight,” Sherlock replied briefly, confirming John's earlier guess about evaluating trajectories. “There is no way the disguised woman who got the child to follow her could keep an eye on the supermarket to judge when a careless parent lost sight of their child – or this particular child, if she was targeted specifically, which is somewhat unlikely, but not impossible – and also be quick enough to take advantage of the opening – which is by all reckoning what happened. There must have been two of them at the very least.”

He thoughtfully paused, then added: “Possibly more, but I don't think so. At any rate, if there are more, they weren't involved in the actual kidnappings. Might be waiting somewhere, though. I'll know more once I've seen the package.”

“Package?” parroted John; then hurriedly added: “Oh, of course, the one the kidnapper used as pretext.”

Lestrade stalked back to them, glowering: “If you're quite done basking in your own genius,” he hissed venomously and thrust a scrap of paper with the demanded address at Sherlock, who, of course, didn't lift a finger.

John scrambled to grasp it before the wet ground could spoil it.

Sherlock sneered: “There is no need to be mad at me for your incompetence.” He briskly turned up the lapels of his Belstaff coat and adjusted his scarf around his neck fastidiously.

“Shut up!” growled the D.I. in a dangerous tone. “Just- shut the hell up, alright?” Then he seemed to deflate: “They're so young. God, I just want to find them,” he said brokenly.

“For pity's sake, Lestrade, stop being so tragic. It's annoying!” groused Sherlock, eliciting an immediate, bristling response: “Well excuse me for being troubled by the fate of innocent little girls...”

“I'll find them,” snapped Sherlock, sounding profoundly offended that anyone could doubt him. “As soon as you idiots start cooperating properly I'll-”

“Yeah, and how will they be when you do?” cut him off Lestrade in a bitter, defeated tone. “Christ, Sherlock. Why do you think I'm in charge of this? I'm a murder team detective.”

Sherlock gazed at him vacuously: “I know.”

“...Meaning, that I pretty much only deal with murders. Or...” He swallowed. “Or kidnappings we think might turn into murders.”

John held his breath, feeling cold inside all of a sudden. “You... don't expect to find them alive then?”

“Well, we've all but excluded all motives that would give the kidnappers a reason to keep the girls alive, haven't we?”

“No we haven't,” protested Sherlock, but he went unheeded.

“So the only thing left is murder,” sighed John. “Or worse, sex and murder.” He glared dully at the over-abundance of Christmas decorations surrounding them. Sometimes the world was just too bleak and cold for such symbols of joys.

“I wouldn't say that,” claimed Sherlock, sounding as irritated as being ignored always made him. “Even though, statistically speaking, the most likely option is a budding serial killer, there are elements that point against this.”

“Then what do you think the kidnappers want with them?”

“Not enough data yet...” he started saying, but a glare from John had him quickly add: “My current hypothesis is illegal organ trading.”

Horrified, the doctor yelped: “Organ trading?”

“Naturally,” confirmed Sherlock, looking unconcerned. “The Tissue Act of 2004 explicitly prohibited the sale of human organs; consequently, the black market for it exploded. After all, the wait lists are so long, that many die before they get a chance at a transplant. Medical tourism to the countries where redundant organs are legally allowed to be sold for certain purposes, such as settling debts, alleviates some of the demand, but not everybody is able, or willing, to fly to Iran and face a risky operation in likely unsafe conditions for that purpose. For those brokers or doctors who are able to provide organs on the side, the amount of money involved is staggering, and almost pure profit.”

“Don't call them doctors,” growled John.

Sherlock shot him a look, but uncharacteristically did not comment: his friend looked positively dangerous.

“Anyway, there is some hope that they were taken for that,” he concluded instead. He made to move away, but stopped soon and turned, blinking with honest perplexity at the horror-filled silence behind him. “What?”

“You sick freak,” whispered Donovan harshly. “How can you talk of hope-” her voice broke on a sob.

“Oh, shut the hell up Donovan,” snapped John, too bothered by the situation to be the pacifier as usual. “He's right. If it's organs they want, they'll want them in good order, and take it from me, you simply can't do that kind of surgery in a hurry, or haphazardly. They'll need a safe, sterile place; equipment; transport options...”

“Exactly!” cried Sherlock, exasperated. “Which gives us more time to find the girls!” He stalked off in a huff and John hurried along.

“Still a bit not good,” he murmured quietly, as an aside. When his friend simply ignored him, he insisted: “Saying it so bluntly, I mean. You could try employing some tact – it wouldn't kill you, I assure you.”

“John!” hissed Sherlock, shooting him a betrayed look.

“I'm just saying,” continued John with gritted teeth, “that you might take into consideration-”

“Take into consideration the stupid over-sensibilities of the likes of Donovan?”

“It's not just Donovan...”

“ _You_ knew what I meant. Why should I pander to those who are too idiotic to-”

“All I'm saying is that a little bit of tact during a crisis could go a long way to-”

“Should I lie, John? Should I tell them that I believe the criminal doctor I suspect is behind this will change his mind at the last minute and repent for his sins? I suppose that would make Donovan feel better – is that what you want?”

“Don't call them doctors! They're not!” roared John.

“Oh, I see,” sneered the consulting detective. “It's not that I shocked Donovan; it's that you didn't want to hear the hard truth...”

“For Christ's sake!” half-shouted John. “You don't even know if-”

“I see no point in wrapping the truth up in comforting, useless lies.”

“It might not be the truth.”

“Which is why I said that there is hope that-”

“Yes, and that? That's not acceptable! Christ, Sherlock, there are human lives – children's lives at stake and-”

“So I should lie?” he spat, fiercely.

“No, of course not,” John bit out. “But you need not voice everything you think. Especially if there are children involved!”

Sherlock grimaced, furious, and childishly lengthened his pace.


	12. Chapter 12

Somewhat to John's surprise, when they arrived at the address they'd been given they found that Lestrade, Donovan and two others had followed their cab: he saw them spill out on the pavement and wave Gibson on to look for a parking spot as Sherlock and he quickly oriented themselves in the familiar area.

It was a charming neighbourhood, with attractive buildings and elegant streets lined with traditional pubs, going all the way to the open spaces of Regent's Park, to the north; one of John's favourite areas to have a wander. It was too bad they didn't have time to enjoy it right then.

Still in a tiff, Sherlock barely glanced at the policemen as they hurried up to them and kept at the silent treatment he was subjecting John to.

The doctor, for his part, determinedly refused to get upset. Or rather, more upset than he already was. He wasn't going to budge on this; but if he and Sherlock were in need of one of their periodical screaming rows about his lack of considerateness (as useless as that was likely to be), well, it wasn't going to happen while two children were in danger. Not if John had any say in it.

Sherlock skipped up to a red-brick Victorian corner building, whose rather grand façade, complete with large windows, stucco plasterwork and brass plaques on the doors, would not have looked out of place in Harley Street, housing the most fashionable plastic surgeons' offices.

He was about to knock when he was halted by a shout from Donovan, who'd stopped to take a call on her phone: “An update,” she gasped, running up to them. “From Sergeant Sutton, who's dealing with things here.”

When they turned to her impatiently, she hurriedly summarized: “Sutton has interrogated the neighbours, a good few of them have seen the man carry the child to a car which left immediately. One man says he thinks she may have been struggling. Nobody had the presence of mind to stop the bastard, more's the pity. Here, the grandmother had a picture of the girl on her phone, it's being circulated...”

She showed it around, ignoring Sherlock's loud demands about details of the car.

“Oh my God,” cried John, stunned by the cute Asian cheekbones and long black hair of the child smiling sweetly in the picture: “I know her too! Maneerat Johnson. I treated her yesterday, same as the other one!”

Suddenly, Sherlock was towering over him, eyes gleaming with interest: “What did you say?”

“I...” John gulped. “This girl, she's a patient of mine. As was the other one. They – I treated them both, Sherlock. Just yesterday, in fact!”

That left everybody speechless once more.

Sherlock was at his keenest: “Well, we have a connection.”

“But, but-” John stammered, heart beating wildly.

“John, give Lestrade a list of all your patients, especially children.”

“They should be recorded,” he said automatically. “I'll call the clinic. But do you really think...”

“It's a bit much of a coincidence, isn't it?” He looked as if John had found the rarest of Christmas presents and gift-wrapped it just for him. “This is incredible! Come on, tell me everything! What do the two have in common?”

Feeling faint, John tried to marshal his thoughts: “As far as I can tell, nothing. Except that they're both girls.”

“Nonsense. There has to be something. I need data, John! Give me something.”

“I-I-I...” John looked around wildly, trying to organize some sort of answer for his insistent flatmate: “I don't know! Melanie – the youngest – is a brat. I'm not joking, no idea why someone would want such a terror. And her tantrums! She's way beyond spoilt. She has her father wrapped around her little finger, though. That's about it. Maneerat – this one – is a sweet little girl, very charming. Cute. The parents adore her, they'd do anything for her.”

“You sure?”

“Quite.”

Sherlock's focus was concentrated: “And the family situation?”

“The first one has a single father,” John told him, recalling his pride at the deductions he'd managed the day before. “Widower, according to Lestrade. Only child, I think.”

“Yeah,” confirmed the D.I. “So's the second one. Adopted four years ago, no siblings.”

“All the parents involved swear they don't have any enemies,” interjected Donovan.

“Of course they do,” muttered Sherlock, without sparing her a glance. He clasped his hands in front of his chin, as if in prayer, and muttered to himself, disregarding everyone else: “Could it be the adoption? No, no. Maybe being orphaned?...” A frown marred his brow. “Wait, wait. Illness.”

He raised his voice enough that John realized he was being addressed once again: “They're both sick, they came to the clinic.”

“Yes,” said John cautiously.

“That will complicate matters for the kidnappers, won't it?” asked Lestrade.

“Probably,” nodded John.

“Irrelevant,” retorted Sherlock. “The point is, they're both sick. That makes the organ trading idea less likely. Unless there's something important to do with their sickness?”

He snapped his eyes back to John's, evidently having forgotten to be mad at him; but the doctor didn't have much to contribute: “Can't imagine what,” he shrugged.

“Same illness?” tried Sherlock.

“No, no.” John shook his head in bewildered denial. “Honestly, not even close.”

Sherlock scowled: “What would make you think of the two in the same context?” Since no answer was forthcoming, he snapped: “Come on, John, think!”

“I am thinking!”

Sherlock's scowl became markedly more pronounced.

John bit his lower lip, repentant: “Alright, alright! Let's see. Hmm. They're both girls. And... I treated them both.” He shook his head helplessly. “Nothing else comes to mind!”

“There has to be something. Why would they target sick girls?”

John just looked at him helplessly.

“Why girls you've treated, then? Why would they be targeting you? _Is_ this targeting you? Are we missing something?” Sherlock shook his head with impatience. “Well, obviously we're missing something. I need to see that package!” he exclaimed, raising his voice dramatically.

He swirled away and marched over to the door, ringing the bell insistently until an unfriendly, harassed-looking constable came to open. Sherlock scowled right back and shouldered his way inside. Lestrade followed with a muttered curse; and so did John.

What was to be found behind the impeccably white door surprised him not a little. Instead of the expected traditional, snug Victorian two up, two down that the exterior promised, the whole ground floor was a wide, single living-room, divided in areas not by walls but merely by the careful disposition of furniture, with a maple and lilac kitchen along the far wall and a cantilevered glass staircase that ran up to the first floor like an insubstantial, floating structure, overhanging without any external bracing.

It looked chic, stylish and dangerous. It rather wowed him.

Sherlock sniffed: “Come on, John, let's go have a chat with the careless grandmother.”

“They're all of them over there,” volunteered the constable, pointing to the left corner, where a few women in various states of distress were gathered by a sofa with oriental patterns.

“Excellent,” said Sherlock without deigning him of a glance, already moving towards them.

“Sherlock!” growled Lestrade, hurrying after him. “Do _not_ harass the witness – do you hear me? Sherlock? Sherlock!”

Donovan followed, grumbling about freaks and procedures and whatnot.

John, however, took a moment to let his gaze fill with the sight of the see-through stairs: even the grey and fading light of a December afternoon managed to pour down from the roof light at the top of the property and reach them, lightening the weight of history that the building should have carried. He knew nothing of architecture whatsoever; but this: this was impressive.

Shaking himself, John focused once more on the case, and on the damage control he was likely to have to do after Sherlock met the high-strung family.

It didn't take him more than an instant to recognize the terrified-looking mother and he made a beeline for her, ignoring the rest of them and in particular the elderly lady with elegant hair-do and discreet morning jewels that had launched herself onto a flabbergasted Lestrade's shoulder and was now sobbing desperately into his shoulder.

Sherlock was giving her wary glances and enough of a wide berth to almost run himself into the Christmas tree nearby and dislodge a few of the baubles; but John knew he would overcome his first impulse soon and get to questioning the piteous woman.

For his part, he turned his attention to Maneerat's mother and what could only be her sister, given the similarity in looks.

Mrs. Johnson recognized John instantly and half-raised from the sofa, surprised: “Doctor Watson...!”

“No, no, stay where you are,” he quickly reassured her, closing the distance. “I'm cooperating with the police, I often do,” he explained. “I'm sorry I'm not the bearer of good news yet, but don't worry. We'll find your daughter soon.”

She tried to force a smile, but simply couldn't.

The sister looked at him with hostility: “And I suppose you're here to ask us yet more useless questions? If you're a doctor cooperating with the police, shouldn't you be wherever my niece is, to make sure she's alright?”

“Don't mind Daphne, Doctor Watson, please,” said Mrs. Johnson quickly. “It's kind of you to come. I'm g-glad to see a familiar face, among all these strangers... I- I know they're helping, and I'm grateful, it's just...” She stifled a sob. Her legs collapsed under her and she fell back, staring dully at the lush carpet under their feet.

A bit surprised at being considered 'familiar', John sat by her side, determinedly tuning out Sherlock's baritone, that was haranguing the rest of the room, and addressed Mrs. Johnson's belligerent sister: “The police are doing all that they can and as soon as we have a concrete lead we shall act upon it. I know it doesn't seem much from where you stand, but everybody's doing their best to bring Maneerat back safe and sound.”

The blonde woman averted her eyes and squeezed her sister's hand with all her strength.

“I know it's hard... believe me, I do; but unfortunately, there really is nothing to do but wait until the investigators do their job.”

“I just feel so useless!” burst out the poor mother, tears running down her face. “I ran back from work as soon as I heard, but now I feel so _useless_. There's nothing to do, nothing at all, and my baby could be anywhere, and...” She gasped, trying not to hyperventilate.

“Don't worry. Sherlock is the absolute best. He will find your daughter: of that, I have no doubts.”

This time, the watery effort towards a smile was somewhat more successful, albeit brief; but she soon returned to fighting back sobs. It was clear that she was alternating between feeling completely numb and totally terrified; not that John blamed her in the least. Dark thoughts clouded _his_ mind: how much worse must it be for the poor mother?

He could imagine how the next several hours would pan out, if no good news came: more friends and relatives would probably start showing up, as awkward as they'd be well-meaning; constables would go in and out, torn between showing compassion and presenting a tough, professional attitude; the distraught parents would become more and more desperate.

“Where is your husband, if I may ask?” he wondered.

“He's out... helping the search... we went to the police station for the questioning together, but it didn't take long, they'd already talked to my mother-in-law... and as soon as he could he raced off to help looking for our little girl... but they say someone should stay here, just in case, in case of what I don't know, it's not like they'll bring her back, will they? But the police insists...”

The woman was now crying silently: “I just keep thinking how scared and lonely my daughter must feel. She wasn't feeling well, you know that Doctor Watson, what if they don't take care of her at all? What if... oh, my baby, my baby!”

“It makes me sick, to think someone could take a little girl like that!” said the sister fiercely. “Sick to my stomach.”

“I just can't help thinking of the dangers she's facing. It wasn't an accident, this was deliberate. He came here to kidnap her. And now she's with that horrible man, and all alone! My poor baby...! What is he doing to her? Why, why?”

John sighed. He knew all too well that when you're waiting, helpless, for some horrible news, unable to do anything, time passed like an eternity and the uncertainty could be unbearable.

Casting about for something to distract her, he caught sight of the glass staircase and tried: “You have a beautiful home. The décor is... amazing. Really. Not what I expected, at all. And that staircase!”

“I suppose it is a little unexpected,” she agreed, sniffling, her mind very clearly elsewhere, but polite nonetheless. “Most owners of period homes make an attempt to stay faithful to its history when it comes to decorating, but I don't see why we should. We've changed our manner of dressing, eating, even travelling: why remain tied to the past in housings?”

“Some find historic architecture to be charming,” muttered the sister in a mechanical way that made John believe this was a much-rehashed argument.

Mrs. Johnson replied quietly: “We can keep the historic charm in the exterior and get modern convenience in a tasteful, contemporary interior.” She was sounding like a rehearsed promo, quiet and tired, but there was a thin thread of genuine gratification, of pride in one's achievements in her words.

“The best of both worlds,” said John kindly.

She managed a true, if watery, smile: “Well, it's not a lateral apartment, or anything as fancy as that,” she said, “but I hope it's pleasing to the eyes. It's my job, you see. I'm an interior designer.”

“It's beautiful,” said John sincerely.

“Thank you.”

Of course, Sherlock chose that moment to burst into the quiet conversation out of the blue, as was his wont: “This Sutton is so completely useless I am on the verge of revising my opinion of Anderson upwards,” he told John with a scowl of such disgust as to be almost funny – not that John was in the mood to smile. “He's lost the package.”

“What?” asked John incredulously. “How?”

“Even with my considerable brain power I cannot fathom an answer to that!”

“The... package?” Mrs. Johnson asked, desolate.

John turned to her immediately: “Mrs. Johnson, here's something you can do,” John said warmly. He squeezed her hands, wishing with all himself that he could reassure her more. “Do you know where the package is? The one the kidnapper used as a scam?” he said encouragingly.

She nodded: “The police wanted to take it away, but they quarrelled about procedures or something. I- I didn't listen.”

“Understandable,” said John to cover Sherlock's disparaging scoff.

“They were going to leave it in the kitchen until someone from forensics could process it properly, I believe,” added Daphne, frowning at them.

Sherlock was up and gone in a moment. John didn't bother to follow and instead remained to offer what comfort he could to the pale and desperate mother.

“What does he want with my baby?” she asked helplessly, squeezing his hand. John had no answer.

The surly constable came up to them, only to tell that they still had no news.

Mrs. Johnson raised tear-filled eyes to John: “Bring her back to me,” she whispered pleadingly.

“We will,” he promised, squashing the part of his brain that was pointing out, loudly, that he couldn't make such a promise, that there were no guarantees. He had faith in Sherlock. Everything would turn out well.

Just then, a rejoicing shout came from the kitchen, startling them: “Aha!” followed by Lestrade's exasperated entreaties for Sherlock to “stop already!”.

John gently pushed the crying mother onto her sister's shoulder and in a moment he was up and running after his mad flatmate: “Sherlock, wait!”


	13. Chapter 13

But when John ran out, he barely managed to spot the tail end of Sherlock's coat disappearing into a cab.

He cursed, kicking at some gravel on the pavement. This wasn't the first, nor would be the last, time Sherlock abandoned him at a crime scene, but it never failed to irritate John badly.

For a long moment – longer than it would have been, had they not quarrelled not so long before – he contemplated going back in, trying to make himself useful to Mrs. Johnson, or even Lestrade; but ultimately he knew his place was with Sherlock, even when the damn genius chose to pettily forget it.

Frustrated, he tried to think up what kind of lead Sherlock might be following, and where, but it was no use. There was simply no way to trace that brain's thought processes, not if the man himself didn't deign to explain, or at least offer some breadcrumbs.

John dithered on the pavement, uncertain, turning options over in his head; to no avail.

After a while, he decided to give it up as a bad job. He started walking towards Baker Street, slowly, carefully considering the possibility of asking Mycroft for his brother's whereabouts. On the one hand, John didn't want to encourage the elder Holmes' insufferable stalking tendencies and general meddling. On the other, Sherlock was probably on his way to getting himself killed in some idiotic way. Without back-up.

His dilemma was solved by his phone ringing: the display blared out the name 'Umbrella Man', which John simply hadn't found the time to change yet. Really.

He cursed again. If Mycroft was already calling him in, then Sherlock was closer to an idiotic death than John was comfortable with.

“Yeah?” he answered with ill-grace.

“Doctor Watson,” droned Mycroft Holmes' voice in his usual condescending tone. “Would you be so kind as to ask my brother to stop taking advantage of my secure databases? Session hijacking tends to irritate my people badly.”

John stopped short. “No.”

“I beg your pardon?” Incredulity oozed from the British Government's tone.

“There are children's lives at stake, Mycroft. I'm going with the forgiveness rather than permission philosophy on this one.”

Whether the following silence was understanding or just flabbergasted, John didn't bother to find out. He just cut the connection off and hurried home. He reckoned Sherlock would want his own laptop for this kind of hacking.

As it turned out, he was wrong; he'd barely set foot into their flat when his phone pinged with a text from Sherlock, summoning him to the Yard.

John rather felt like a spinning top, being turned around and around at his mad flatmate's whim. He fought the urge to scream, then the impulse to leave Sherlock to wait for him and just have a good cup of tea instead.

He went back out, grumbling all the way, and found a cab.

Oh, he would go, of course. He always did. He kind of felt better for grumbling, though. At least a little.

“I thought you weren't allowed in the evidence room?” was the first thing out of his mouth, when he'd navigated the surprisingly high number of dark faces and irritated mutterings that marked Sherlock's path through the Yard.

“I merely reminded Constable Lakey that if you don't find an abducted child within the first 24 hours, odds are you won't find her alive; that time is running out; and that this wasn't the time to let protocols stand in the way of a child's safety,” Sherlock replied serenely.

He gave John an overly-innocent glance: “Why, John. I thought you would be happy that I'm finally 'showing some human compassion' for this terrible, terrible situation.”

John shot him a disgusted look.

Apparently unfazed, Sherlock returned his attention to the lab computer he was using.

“So why are you hacking Mycroft's database, then?”

Sherlock frowned: “How do you know that's what I'm doing?” Then without waiting for an answer: “Oh, of course. He called you, didn't he?” He scowled at the screen: “Tattletale.”

John half-chocked on incredulity, while Sherlock fired off what was no doubt a vicious text with the ferocious expression he reserved for Mycroft alone.

“Going to tell me what it is you figured out?” asked John after a while. He did not bother to hide his irritation, but as usual, it didn't seem to sort any effect on his friend.

“They're clever, very clever; but not clever enough. Have a look. It's a completely nondescript parcel: large enough to be unwieldy, but not so much that a wheelbarrow would be needed to transport it. Thus, unremarkable. Name and address of the recipient in print, just like anything you want to be routed through an express package delivery service. All standard. But! Aha!” Sherlock was almost bursting with excitement. “Almost all parcels wear a barcode these days: that way they can be tracked all the stages until the final recipient. This one didn't have anything of the sort. What it did have, was smearing of two viscous substances on the side and bottom and traces of wool fibres."

Which no one else would have remarked upon, concluded John, stunned once more at his friend's keen observation skills.

“Amazing,” he murmured, drawing a pleased glance from Sherlock. “What kind of substances?”

The consulting detective ignored him: “Now, tell me: what kind of symptoms did the first girl show? Cough? Fluid secretions?”

“Fluid- Oh, God, I can't believe you used that word outside a medical report,” John chuckled. “No, Sherlock, she did not produce any nasal mucus.”

“Hm,” Sherlock looked disappointed. “Must be someone else's then. Because this is certainly a bodily secretion connected with the common cold,” he informed John, pointing to a microscope nearby.

“Hm,” agreed the doctor, then turned his attention to the next Petri dish where Sherlock had scooped something that was smeared on the side of the package. “You know, if it isn't the girl's, then it's the kidnapper's. Forensic is no doubt running the tests and...”

“Results will arrive too late to be of any use,” concluded Sherlock, scornful. “It's a wonder that-”

“Hold on,” John interrupted him abruptly. “This... This looks like the cream I prescribed to Melanie Horton. For her rash.”

“I knew it!” Sherlock crowed. “She was held wherever the package was!”

He abandoned everything, cheerfully dismissive of the untidiness he was leaving behind, and grabbed his coat on his way out: “Come on, John! I got everything I needed from here!”

And just like that, they were running again, hurrying through the busy constables and out along the crowded streets, where the lowering temperature transformed the humid air into a fog that wrapped in a grey ghostly cloak the numerous passers-by and cars.

To John's everlasting surprise, Sherlock proceeded to actually call someone.

The doctor watched in amazement as his friend walked briskly with his phone by his ear, talking easily to someone about factories and warehouses, cinemas and theatres and... post offices? What was that all about?

Without bothering to explain, Sherlock ended the call and bundled John into the nearest cab.

“Who was that?” tried John once his friend had rattled off an unfamiliar address.

“An urbex,” was the clipped response.

“A what?”

“An urban explorer. Knows the derelict parts of London better than anyone.”

“He's... part of your homeless network?” guessed John.

Sherlock snorted: “Certainly not! He's a very well-paid photographer, lives in Hampstead."

"Huh."

In spite of his numerous questions, John didn't get much more out of the consulting detective: as usual, Sherlock enjoyed keeping his cards close until he could perform a grand reveal in as dramatic a way as he could contrive (which was a lot).

The icy worry in his stomach was starting to disappear however, because the excited glint in Sherlock's eyes was a clear sign that they were nearing the conclusion of the case.

The cab deposited them in short order in an area between Woolwich Road and the River Thames where, Sherlock explained distractedly, there used to be many factories, though most suffered heavy bombing during World War II. As usual, the consulting detective seemed to know London as well as John knew his own body and found his way around in the darkness without the slightest hesitation.

"Here we are," said Sherlock, slowing to a stop and scrutinizing their surroundings with his piercing gaze.

"And where is 'here'?" asked John, looking around as well, despite knowing he was unlikely to see even a tenth of what Sherlock was registering and analyzing.

"Charlton Riverside," replied the consulting detective. "Or at least, that's what the planners are calling it these days. This is supposed to become a new urban quarter - residential buildings, high quality business space, a creative industries hub in the eastern Historical Quarter... the works."

"Ok. Why are we here?"

"Because," answered Sherlock almost with relish, "this area hosted a number of large prefab retail units of no aesthetic worth whatsoever, which, for the most part, now lay derelict and are therefore an excellent place for small time criminals to set up a temporary base of operation. In particular... there!"

He pointed with a flourish to where remnants of an imposing entrance facade could be seen, retained to form part of a much newer, and cheaper-looking, security fence.

"Used to be a metal fabrication factory. The business started elsewhere and then they moved to this Charlton site in 1913. By the 1930s they'd become famous for their metal office furniture," Sherlock rattled off with his usual thoroughness of detail.

He started walking along the fence. "The factory was demolished around 1990 and currently the place is being used as storage yard for water main replacement work."

"Why are we here?" asked John again, wrapping himself more tightly in his jacket.

"According to my contact, this is the most likely place for what we’re after. Not entirely abandoned, easily accessible, not guarded..."

“What? Does this photographer friend of yours really keep track of where criminals might lurk?”

“Urbex, John. And whyever not? Of course, he calls it ‘witnessing and cataloguing the profound beauty of abandoned man-made environments and decaying, uninhabited spaces’,” he added thoughtfully. “His being dreadfully poetic about it doesn’t prevent me from making good use of the information he gathers.”

John stifled a grin. Then another thought stroke him: “Doesn’t the police keep this area under surveillance, if it’s such a risk?”

Sherlock shrugged: “There are many more 'risk area' to check than their budget allows for. I imagine they’re rather more interested in the northern bank,” he concluded with a careless nod in the direction of the river.

“Really? Why?”

“Let's just say it's an area I frequented a lot six years ago or so.”

It took John a while to connect the dots, but realizing Sherlock was referring to his drugs days made him feel ill, and the conversation was dropped.

It was dark already; their breaths were heavy in the cold and the distant sounds of a London winter afternoon, barely reaching this abandoned neighbourhood, were more alarming than familiar.

“According to my contact, there should be an easy way in somewhere around here, for... I believe he called it 'infiltration'," said Sherlock with a grin.

“So we're looking for a broken window or a hole of some sort?” John nodded to himself.

Sherlock fiddled with his smartphone until the display lit up and then held it like a torch, moving it along the dark asphalt, still wet from the earlier rain, the wall of the building, its broken windows and its drainpipes, searching for a way in.

“I wonder how they're choosing them,” mused Sherlock aloud while they searched.

“What do you mean?”

“The children. Why those two girls?” Sherlock looked honestly puzzled. “Is it some characteristic they both have, that we don't know about? Is it in relation to you? Is it random?”

"I'm not sure - " John started, then stopped suddenly, his eyes widening.

He'd been looking at an old poster, one that had faded to indistinguishable blobs of pale colours, and peeling away from the wall, unable to understand why it gave him the impression of being somewhat wrong. He'd absently given it a tug, and it had come down far too easily, exposing a door stuck ajar.

"Ah! Very good, John!"

In a moment, Sherlock was past him and wrenching it open and - of course - slithering inside without a thought to his own safety.

John cursed and pulled at the door violently to open it more. Was caution really such a foreign concept to his idiotic mad genius?

Finally managing to push himself inside the derelict building, John took off at a run towards where he could see the bluish light of his friend's smartphone moving away; as soon as he caught up with Sherlock, he grabbed him and started berating him in a hissed whisper.

But Sherlock wasn't listening, too busy studying the area with expert eyes. "John, look at that!" he murmured intensely.

Easily, John spotted a few somewhat expected signs of presence: crushed beer cans thrown here and there, a faded, cheap jacket hung on a rusty nail, a rolled up mat that looked more like a dirty rug. A banged up aluminum pot filled with cans of beans and tomatoes sauce was pushed all the way into a dusty corner, along with a battered swiss knife.

"Someone is squatting here,” he whispered knowledgeably.

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“When you’ve got next to nothing, you hold on to the little you've got," Sherlock murmured back. "A homeless person might leave their cardboards, or if they’re lucky like that, their mat or sleeping bag rolled up somewhere they consider ‘safe’; they might even hide a stash of food – though they wouldn’t leave any out so openly; but clothes? A _knife_?" He shook his head. "Those things are too valuable to leave behind. No, John. When all you have are the clothes on your back, you keep them on your back!”

John thought it over: “Ok. So what you’re saying is, this is someone who wants us to think they’re squatters, but they aren’t really?”

“Nor did they do any serious research on how most homeless live. They wouldn’t fool a child,” said Sherlock contemptibly.

“They fooled me!” grumbled John, annoyed.

“Only because you refuse to observe,” retorted Sherlock with a dismissive wave of his hand, and moved on.

John rolled his eyes to his back.

“Someone – no, at least three someones – has been going back and forth along this passage,” was saying the consulting detective quietly as they progressed. “See? Everything points to--"

He was interrupted by John's phone ringing.

"Lestrade," he informed Sherlock quickly and put the call on the speaker phone.

“We might have found one of them,” said the D.I. at once, hope threaded in his voice.


	14. Chapter 14

“We might have found at least one of them,” repeated the D.I. quickly, hope threaded in his voice. “We got an anonymous call, saying they'd spotted a little girl in an abandoned vehicle, outside the paintball place in Herringham Road. Bloke swears she’s the missing one he’s seen on TV.”

Sherlock stood stock still, frowning with what appeared to be annoyance; but John knew him well enough to tell that he was surprised and refusing to show it.

“That’s not far from here,” he said more neutrally than John expected.

“We’re on our way,” added Lestrade. “When we find her, we’ll be taking her to Queen Elizabeth Hospital; it’s the closest.”

“ _If_ you find her,” muttered Sherlock.

John looked at him, worried.

“Well, it makes no sense!” hissed the consulting detective.

“What was that?” Lestrade’s voice was threaded with tension and irritation. “Listen, Sherlock. I don't have time for cryptic clues!”

Something mumbled came through the phone in a voice that was likely Donovan’s; John wasn’t sorry that it was too indistinct to understand: it was probably derogative, knowing the Sergeant.

“Greg? You believe it’s true, then?” asked John.

“Yes?” said Lestrade cautiously; then he quickly went on, talking over Sherlock’s snort. “Whatever. We’ll find out soon enough.”

A soft click told them that the D.I. had closed the conversation rather abruptly. Sherlock sneered.

“Are we joining them?” asked John. “Since they’re so close and all?”

“Certainly not. There’s no point wasting our time as well.”

“But it could be...”

“What, John? What could it be? Because the girl being there? It makes no sense!”

“But what if...?”

“Think, John. Think! These kidnappings weren’t random. The second one proves it beyond doubt. These girls were chosen. Why? What for? Not for leaving them in random cars.” Sherlock adjusted the lapels of his coat with haughty dignity. “What would be the point of just leaving one somewhere after going to such lengths to take her in the first place?”

“Well,” said John slowly, formulating his ideas as he went along: “what if... I don’t know, but what if... they found out it wasn’t the right girl after all?”

That gave Sherlock pause – for a fraction of a second. “Then they’d kill her, if they had any sense, which they’ve proven they have,” he declared confidently.

“Some people balk at killing innocent children, you know!”

Sherlock looked at him blankly.

“Yes! Even criminals!” bit out John. “Kidnapping isn’t the same as hurting!”

“The psychological trauma argues for it being damaging to the child,” said Sherlock haughtily.

John sighed, rubbing his nose tiredly: “I’m not saying it’s not harmful. I’m saying that it’s possible they were ready to kidnap, but not to murder! That stands to reason!”

“That may be the case,” allowed Sherlock, unconvinced, “but why not simply hold the girl while they went back for the one they wanted, then? It increases the risk they’re taking tenfold, to release her!”

“Well I don’t know, do I? They must have had a reason,” said John lamely.

“No, no, no!” Sherlock looked actually offended. “That doesn't make any sense!”

However, sense or not, it wasn’t ten minutes later that Lestrade called them to confirm that they had, indeed, found a girl in an abandoned car (which, to his audible embarrassment, had turned out to be the one Sherlock had insisted they find and track the day before). There was a lot of cheering and screaming in the background as the D.I. cried happily: “We've got her! It's the elder one, Maneerat Johnson.”

“Is she fine?” asked John, anxious.

“Looks like it. Scared, even of us, but not too worse for wear. She was just strapped into a car seat and thankfully unharmed. Donovan reckons that when the kidnapper learned of the alert, they got scared and ditched the car -- and the child.”

“Well that makes even less sense!” spat Sherlock. He glared at John as if it was all his fault.

“We’ll be there,” the doctor said hurriedly and ended the call.

“We’re missing something,” said Sherlock at once, not letting him voice his questions. “Something obvious. Something that is staring at me. Yet I’m still missing it!”

“Sherlock…” he tried, only to be interrupted sharply.

“Why would they kidnap her, John? Why? And then to go and release her! Why… why!?”

John gave himself a long moment to digest this: “Okay,” he said eventually. There was no sense in discounting Sherlock’s genius. If he said that all was not as it seemed, than all was not as it seemed. “What do we do, then?”

A grim and trembling girl’s voice suddenly blurted out from behind them: “Alright. Hands up.”

Given their usual track record, not to mention how they’d both forgotten to keep their voices down, John really wasn’t at all surprised by finding himself held at gunpoint.

He was, however, rather shocked that it was _Brittany of the trinkets stand_ holding a gun trained on them, albeit not looking very comfortable with it.

“Brittany?” he asked, too incredulous to even obey her order.

“You know her?” asked Sherlock, equally incredulous.

Shocked, the girl faltered, lowering the gun a fraction: “Doctor Watson? Why the hell are you here?”

Not being encumbered by the need to slowly process a situation like typical, non-genius humans, Sherlock reacted in a split instant: he had the gun wrenched from her hand and safely out of her reach in a moment.

“Now!” he crowed triumphantly. “Let’s have some answers.”

Pale and scared, the girl darted her eyes to the door behind her.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” said John sternly. “You’re already in a world of trouble, Brittany. Start talking and tell us everything.”

She wavered, uncertain, scowling and trembling with equal measure of fear and mulish defiance.

“How come you know her? Is she connected to the clinic?” Sherlock was scrutinizing her like a predator and fired off questions to John and her almost randomly. “Did you choose the girls to kidnap? Does she have any known associates? Did you see anyone at the clinic who could be the fake delivery man? Why those two? Were you targeting John? Answer me!”

Intimidated, the girl opened her mouth to hesitantly answer, but a bloodcurdling shriek interrupted them.

Without conscious thought, John bolted, all his instincts of soldier and doctor reacting to a child’s screams: he was running, heart pounding in his chest, his senses heightened by adrenalin enough that he didn’t stumble into likely obstacles even in the dark.

He barged into a further room where a camp lamp gave faint light to a few more makeshift furnishings and at once spotted a blond girl strapped to a car-seat with a good deal of rope, against which she was wriggling and struggling, all the while howling and crying so much that her face was all red and blotchy.

It took John a split second to judge that she wasn’t in any immediate danger and barely a moment longer to recognize the spoilt brat he’d visited the previous afternoon. To his shock, he soon realized that the girl wasn’t harmed – merely bored, and bawling because of it. Her golden-chestnut curls and cute porcelain face were still as angelic as the first time he’d seen her; her epic tantrum-throwing skills just as intact.

Sherlock had had the presence of mind to grab onto Brittany to prevent her from slipping away and was just a few steps behind John, dragging her by her arm in spite of her scowls and whines. As soon as they were all in the room, however, the dark haired girl stopped struggling against Sherlock and burst into loud and furious reprimands directed at the howling girl; remarkably, she managed to berate her for being a brat and complain loudly to John and Sherlock - about what a horror she was and how unfair it was that she had to stay and watch her - in a single breath and almost matching the volume of the girl’s screams.

John felt like fainting with relief and bashing his head against a wall in annoyance at the same time; so, of course, he did neither. Instead, deciding an intervention was in order, he drew a breath and brought out Captain Watson’s Voice, barking to the both bratty girls to “Shut. UP!”

And blessed silence fell.

It lasted for all of five seconds before the two brats were screeching again, both protesting vehemently the treatment they were subjected to and insulting each other and the two men liberally. Honestly, they were as bad as each other!

John’s mood was unaccountably lifted, however, when he spotted Sherlock backing slowly away, horror in his countenance. He was quite obviously out of his depth, facing two girls’ temper tantrums.

Taking pity on his friend, he whistled sharply to regain control – or at least silence – and glared the two squabbling girls into submission. Sherlock gave him a look of such amazed relief that John felt like laughing; he mused that the peasants must have looked at St. George in a similar way when he got back from those dragon-infested hills.

“You’re the good doctor,” piped up suddenly the little girl.

She garnered incredulous looks from both Brittany and Sherlock, but John was unfazed and replied calmly: “Yes, I am. And where is your ring?”

Sudden fury and outrage filled her: “They took it!” she wailed.

John rounded on the older girl, tone stern and loud in the hope of staving off the crying: “Brittany. Give her back her ring.”

The child stopped wailing at once, looking at John with delight and then at Brittany with smug triumph; the dark-haired girl, on the other hand, bristled: “What? No, I told her she wouldn’t get it if she didn’t behave!...”

“Brittany,” John cut her off with gritted teeth. “I have had a very long and _very_ bad day. I have a score of questions, ranging from why you aren’t with Social Services to what you were thinking in getting mixed up with a kidnapper, and believe me, I _will_ get my answers, one way or the other, but I shall tell you right now, you do _not_ want to make me even more angry than I am already, so I suggest you stop forcing me to act as a playground monitor and just. Give. Her. The. Bloody. Ring!”

Reluctantly, the churlish teenager handed over the gaudy pink plastic ring, making the spoilt little girl squeal in delight and struggle against the ropes with renewed energy. John bent down to release her, silently berating himself for not doing it at once. She launched herself at him, hugging him briefly and grabbing for the ring.

John didn’t relinquish it, however, and tugged a little – making her scowl again – to catch her eyes with a serious gaze: “Now, this is a princess ring,” he said sternly.

“I know!” she interrupted, offended.

John paid her no mind: “That means you have to behave like a princess and be sweet and stay quiet while we do our job as policemen, okay?”

That gave her pause. “Are you really policemen?” she asked with a frown of interest.

“We’re playing,” retorted John at once.

She accepted this easily. “Of course, doctor,” she said sweetly, the picture of angelic cuteness.

Good enough, thought John, rolling his eyes.

Getting to his feet again, he turned to the older girl: “Now. About those questions.”

It took a while to get a somewhat coherent image of the situation. Luckily, Sherlock’s amazing speed in putting clues together allowed him to deduce most of it without having to drag too many details from the surly teenager. It helped that whenever he figured something out, she couldn’t help crying out.

The downside of all the drama was that John was developing quite the headache – not the least because Melanie had taken her role as ‘princess’ in the supposed game as implicit permission to sing loudly and repeatedly every song Disney movies had ever made popular (or so it seemed to John).

Sherlock was pacing back and forth, deducing things aloud at rapid speed, but he kept returning to the one point that made no sense to him and which Brittany’s reluctant admissions weren’t clarifying.

“But why release the other girl? Why?” He demanded, turning around on himself like a man possessed, his voice getting increasingly loud until: “Oh!”

John smiled. He knew that shell-shocked, triumphant gleam in Sherlock’s eyes – that half-second in which everything slotted into place for him and he delighted in his own brilliance.

“Oh! oh, oh! It's a _distraction_!” the consulting detective cried in triumph. “They're sending the police out of the way, using the girls as baits to lure us where they want us...”

“What, like a trap?” asked John, thinking that it didn’t make much sense after all.

“Yes! No!” Sherlock looked exultant, Brittany pale and glaring and the child was still singing in the background; John just felt confused.

“The location is all wrong for that,” his best friend half-shouted. “No, no - they're luring us _away_ from somewhere. Ha! But where? Where! Why?!” He grabbed John by his shoulders. “What do they want? That’s the question, John! The last question – once we answer that, we’ll know everything!”

Automatically, they both swung their head to look at Brittany.

The girl, however, firmed her lips and crossed her arms before her tightly, the picture of defiant defensiveness: the mix of fear and determination in her eyes told them clearly that they wouldn’t get the answer from her... not easily at least.

Releasing John abruptly, Sherlock started off to where they’d come from.

“Hold on. Sherlock! We can’t leave them here!” cried the blogger, exasperated.

His shoulder slumped as he turned to look at the two girls, who were both silent and staring at him. Somehow, the gazes felt accusing.

With a sigh, he fumbled for his phone and set about getting Lestrade to come and do his job. Hopefully, they’d get here quickly enough for him to catch up with Sherlock... wherever Sherlock was headed.


	15. Chapter 15

Thankfully, where Sherlock was, turned out to be where John needed to go, too: the nearest hospital.

Donovan had been charged with taking Brittany down to the Yard, where she would be interrogated again, only officially this time, and where they would hopefully find out just why she wasn’t with Social Services as she was supposed to.

Meanwhile John had resigned himself to be the one who took little Melanie to the hospital, because the girl had screamed her lungs out at the mere suggestion of his leaving her alone with the policemen.

Lestrade elected to accompany them in the hope of catching up with Sherlock, and more importantly, with the answers the consulting detective was bound to have.

Much to the D.I.’s relief, John had handled the little angel with impressive lungs the whole way there. Much to John’s relief, Sherlock had been there harassing the harried relatives when he got to hand the girl over to her distraught father and move on to handle _his_ spoilt brat. Err… best friend.

There was a lot of hassle around the newly retrieved child, from concerned nurses, curious orderlies, the frantic father’s friends and a number of other snooping policemen, patients and various relatives. John, still nursing a headache and grumbling against his so-called friend under his breath, did his best not to snap at anyone, but his patience was sorely tried.

The confusion was made much worse by the loud and insistent presence of the press: journalists had jumped on the kidnappings in a very predictable way right from the start and, now, they were visibly salivating at Sherlock’s presence on top of their scoop. Lestrade, too, was recognized and pounced upon quickly and he tried his best _not_ to answer the raining questions, repeating his ‘no comment’ line through gritted teeth.

At least the two girls seemed to be perfectly fine – which was more than they’d hoped for that morning.

As John moved past the worst of the commotion, he shared a smiling glance with Mrs. Johnson and made a detour to where she was crying in relief and adrenaline crash on the other side of the room; she had a tight grip on her baby girl and John very much doubted she’d let go. She tried to thank him over and over, despite his protests that he really hadn’t done much of anything.

Mr. Johnson was standing by her side, pale and winded: he looked as if he was going to faint any minute. Mrs. Johnson’s sister was comforting him to the best of her abilities, which wasn’t saying much in John’s opinion, but he wisely didn’t comment on her quietly berating manners. Maneerat herself was sniffling quietly, held securely in her mother’s arms; her grandmother smiled gently through her tears, gently stroking her hair. The elderly woman still looked elegant and refined even though she was clearly distressed, rather disheveled and still in that morning’s clothes and jewels. That was class, thought John.

The family picture made a stark contrast to the side of the corridor where the little terror's father, Mr. Hornton, was hysterical, unable to stop sobbing loudly and blabbing on about irrelevant things. Lestrade was eyeing him with distaste. John eyed with distaste Melanie weaseling a promise of ‘ice-cream every day’ from her crying father. Nurses and journalists alike kept cooing over her chestnut-golden curls and sweet, sweet smile, chattering among themselves as if no-one else was present and fussing without much apparent aim.

All in all, it was a corner of confusion and John was faintly relieved that Sherlock’s attention had moved on and was now pinned on a side corridor further away, instead.

John went to stand by his friend’s side and looked over as well, briefly considering whether the glossy steel elevator might be what was keeping Sherlock’s focused stare, before concluding that no, there was nothing of interest there. It was more likely that the consulting detective was simply intent on ignoring the press with supreme determination; or perhaps he was sorting something in his mind palace and wasn’t even seeing the above mentioned elevator.

Patiently, John waited for his friend to be ready to talk, giving bland smiles to the couple of reporters who tried to ask him something and just letting his gaze wander. He idly mused that the aquamarine walls and light wooden doors made the corridor less off-putting than most hospitals he’d been in.

Lestrade came up to the two friends looking thunderous and drew a breath to say something, but was cut off by Sherlock, who didn’t even glance at him before rattling off commandingly: “Arrest that girl’s, Brittany’s, abusive father. He’s the kidnapper. Him and someone else, the woman who has taken part in the actual kidnappings – the mother or stepmother or something along those lines, I'd wager. Brittany wouldn't have been trusted, I don't think, she's a decent liar but too erratic for that kind of acting and in any case, she was with John at the time of the first kidnapping."

He clapped his hands behind his back and went on rapidly: "So, the father and a female accomplice. Find them and you'll have the case solved. Mind you, that would be easier if you'd found the car, like I told you to do, but I've given up expecting any kind of efficiency from London's finest. Perhaps, if you're lucky, you might get a confession from Brittany herself, and find them thus. I wouldn't hold my breath for it, though. Abused since childhood, you understand: John can confirm it, he's the one who spotted it. I don't expect she'll go against her father, no matter what – she didn't when _we_ interrogated her. You're better off focusing on the car – which you should really have already found, by this point.”

Visibly deflating and blinking owlishly, the poor D.I. tried to catch up with Sherlock’s abrupt info dump. “Father. Female accomplice. Car. Got that,” he muttered, swallowing his irate comments.

A new bunch of relatives and friends arrived in a hurry and swarmed over to the Johnsons, animating the area around the family with questions and exclamations, shoulder-pats and hugs. The journalists followed in their wake like sharks scenting blood.

Mechanically, the three men moved a few steps over to make room for the new arrivals.

Lestrade shook his head to clear it and started again, half-pleading half-warning: “Sherlock…”

The consulting detective rolled his eyes and gave the D.I. a most put-upon glare, obviously on the brink of delivering one of his typical, scathing comments; however, his mind suddenly changed tracks and he turned abruptly to address Mrs. Johnsons: “Wait. What did you just say?”

Sherlock’s barging into the conversation without a shred of concern for politeness seemed to shock the gaggle of relieved and babbling relatives into an uncertain silence. The most quick-on-the-uptake reporters hushed and turned eagerly to the famous detective.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes: “You said you didn’t call your mother-in-law.”

“N-no…” admitted the confused mother, blinking at him.

“Then who did?” he demanded sharply.

John noticed a few notepads being furiously scribbled upon and fought down a grin.

“She’s here now – evidently she’s been informed of her granddaughter’s rescue and of where to find her,” insisted Sherlock impatiently. “The hospital wouldn’t have called: they contacted the parents, obviously, and you just said you were both at the police station at the time.”

“Yes…”

“It would have been up to you to call _her,”_ he jerked his head towards the grandmother, who started and frowned, displeased. Sherlock's eyes were lit with grim excitement as he went on: “You didn’t, though. So… who did?”

Baffled glances were exchanged all around; nobody could answer him, however.

The consulting detective wasn’t put out: clearly, he had a good idea of the answer himself.

John turned to look questioningly at Sherlock, who spared him one of his not-really-a-smile: “We’ve been played, John.”

The blogger cocked his head to the side, trying to figure out what the detective meant. “Huh?”

Ignoring the number of questions being pelted at him from everybody present, Sherlock marched quickly away, leaving John, as usual, to follow. Lestrade, bless his soul, ran interference for them, engaging the journalists and distracting the relatives, for which John felt deeply grateful. He made a mental note to force Sherlock into doing their paperwork for the case for once, as a thank you.

A young constable, on Lestrade's signal, attempted to follow them, but unlike John, he wasn't used to keep up with Sherlock's fast pace while weaving through a crowded space; he was quickly distanced as they moved speedily towards the nearest exit.

The consulting detective spoke rapidly, without looking at John: “Why select these particular girls in the first place? These kidnappings weren’t random, that much is obvious. And why release them like this? No doubt the one we found was supposed to be left somewhere the same way, in a little while. But what’s the point of it all? It looks like a trap, but the location is all wrong for that.”

“I know, you said,” commented John, deftly sidestepping a nurse and his trolley. “They were luring us away from somewhere.”

“No, no. Not us! Them!”

“What?” John felt genuinely baffled and didn't even stop to throw his usual hurried apology to the elderly couple Sherlock's whirlwind passage had nearly unbalanced.

“Don’t you see? Someone told the grandmother that the child had been found. But who, John? Who?” Sherlock’s smile was as sharp as a razor. “Why, the kidnappers, themselves!

John could only mutter intelligently: “Huh?”

He hurried out after his friend, who had dramatically pushed the double doors open, meeting the blast of cold that had come in head on, and was now adjusting his coat lapels and scarf without breaking his fast stride.

John hissed a grumble, huddling in his own jacket, but Sherlock went on without sparing him a glance: “Of course, the woman runs here in a flash – why wouldn’t she? _Sentiment_. And they get what they wanted from the start.”

“Which... is?” asked the blogger, rubbing his hands in an effort to stave off the chill.

“The house, John! For some reason, they needed the house empty.”

John stared for a long moment, feeling his mouth open on a myriad questions and closing it quickly on the mouthful of icy air he inadvertently gulped; Sherlock, eager and triumphant, was already hailing a cab. “Come on!” he shouted over his shoulder.

The former army doctor cursed, correctly guessing that Sherlock was determined to storm the house in question on his own. Typical. He tried very hard not to break into a wide grin, but couldn’t help himself. This, this was what he loved the most of their life. The exhilaration of the chase, the thrill of the risk...!

As soon as he drew the cab’s door shut, the car was speeding away, a twenty pounds note from Sherlock insuring the cabbie’s dedication to getting them to their destination in record time.

“Oh, they're clever,” muttered Sherlock with a touch of glee. “They thought of everything, calibrated their actions for maximum effect. Timing, it's all in the timing!”

He was gazing out of the cab window, but John would bet he wasn't really seeing any of the colourful lights and hurried people.

“Of course, we have a chance to disrupt their plans now. The second girl wasn't supposed to be found so soon, clearly: they would have used her exactly like the first, leaving her somewhere and calling the tip to send the police on a merry chase, gaining themselves more time. I wonder if they know already that their plan isn't going smoothly anymore? Still, we haven't gained much on them...”

He trailed off, happily thoughtful.

“But what do they _want?”_ _a_ sked John, filled with excitement and confusion.

“Ah!” Sherlock paused. “That, I have no idea about.”

John gave him an incredulous look.

Since no reaction was forthcoming, he ventured: “Could it be that they needed a particular location for something?” It sounded far fetched even to him, however.

Sherlock made a dismissive noise. “There are more easily obtained places of all kinds which are more secure. Unless there's something peculiar about the house? But that wouldn’t explain the other girl. No. How about something _in_ the house, then? Something they must have in common... no, that _the girls_ must have in common. You!” he shouted suddenly.

“What?” jumped John.

“Think, John. Think! The police has spent quite some time looking for any similarity between the two girls and what did they find? Nothing. But they both came to the clinic. _You_ visited them. That’s the only thing they have in common: it’s the key, it has to be.”

“...That's ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” allowed Sherlock, disgruntled. “Or maybe I'm _still_ missing something. No matter.” He narrowed his eyes at the back of the driver's seat. “I will find out.”

The house was dark when they arrived, despite the bright street-lamps and the magnificent Christmas tree in the small garden next door, whose elegant decorations cast a cheery glow of golds and reds onto the façade.

The door, when Sherlock touched it, very conveniently swung open without a sound, prompting a glance from Sherlock that was lost in the darkness, but probably smug, and an invisible grimace from John.

A cursory glance was enough for Sherlock to dismiss the ground floor and move determinedly towards the stairs, quite clearly in no need of a light to navigate the dark room, but John wasn't comfortable with such a cavalier attitude, his training screaming at him to secure the area before moving on; and that was the only reason their quarries didn't slip through their fingers after all.

The former army doctor caught the flicker of shadows dancing against other shadows and recognized the movement for what it was – two figures making their way silently but frantically in the darkness.

He didn't hesitate, he didn't think; yelling for Sherlock, he pounced on the closer figure, intent on stopping it – he got a punch to the chin for his trouble, but ignored it with practised ease and twisted to unbalance his opponent; both of them crumpled to the floor, the stockier weight of his adversary dragging John down on top of him.

Mindful of the other presence, John threw himself to the side in the hope of catching it as it bolted for the door and through more luck than skill managed to make it stumble.

A female voice let out a suffocated curse and the shadow it belonged to staggered, catching herself on the wall; but John had no attention to spare her, because his first opponent had recovered enough to engage him again – and obviously fancied himself a boxer. Luckily, the darkness made him overreach his fists and he only grazed John a couple times; the former soldier had little trouble subduing him.

Running steps somewhere above proved that Sherlock had heard the scuffle and suddenly the room was inundated with light; John blinked rapidly to recover his vision but only tightened his grip on the man he'd forced to the floor, shifting a knee to push between his shoulderblades.

The female voice cursed again, louder this time; turning towards the entrance door, John caught a confused sight of a young woman hitting a tall man in a dark coat with her fists.

She had Brittany's same dark hair and eyes, but in her, they were combined with daintier features and a taller, willowy frame: where her sister could have been pretty if she had scowled less, she was truly beautiful. She was struggling ineffectively against who John abruptly recognized as Lestrade, who had obviously caught her just as she made her escape, halting her right on the doorstep.

“None of that, missy!" the D.I. barked. "Bloody hell, John! And Sherlock... oh, of _course_ you're here already!”

John realized he'd been vaguely registering the noises from outside even as he wrenched his struggling captive to the floor again: the police had, somehow, arrived almost on their heels.

“Lestrade!” exclaimed Sherlock, who'd stopped on the stairs.

“You could have _told_ me where you were going!” complained the D.I., while promptly stopping the young woman's aborted escape attempt by very firmly grasping her arm and pushing her inside the room.

“How did _you_ get here?” asked Sherlock, for once looking honestly surprised.

“We're not completely useless, you know!” grumbled Lestrade, ignoring Sherlock's derisive huff. Then, a little more reluctantly, he admitted: “We tracked the car.”

“Ha!”

“What car?” asked John wearily – and then metaphorically hit himself on the forehead, because what car could Lestrade possibly mean, if not the one Sherlock had been so adamant – and biting – about?

Indeed, the consulting detective shouted a very hearty: “Finally!” in clear triumph.

“Yeah, yeah,” the D.I. grumbled halfheartedly. “Now, then. I presume these are the kidnappers?” he glared at the young woman that was still feebly struggling in his firm grasp.

She drew herself up with a glare, but the man John was still holding down renewed his struggles and ground out a furious order: “Don't tell them anything, Cathy!”

While Sherlock started making his way down the last steps of the stairs in a dramatically regal manner, John commented offhandedly, almost to himself: “Huh. Another Cathy, eh? It sure seems like the world is full of them as of late.”

Sherlock froze.

John gazed up at him in slight concern:he looked thunderstruck.

“John,” he whispered. “Oh, John!... You fantastic conductor of light!”

“Huh?”

Lestrade, oblivious in his irritation, went on with directing the arrest of the two - “...for breaking and entering, to start with; and then we'll see about the kidnappings...” - but his voice seemed to fade into the background.

“It’s connected,” breathed Sherlock, sounding awed. “It’s all connected.”

“What?” asked Lestrade, perplexed. “What are you on about now?”

Sherlock threw his head back and laughed, loud and delighted: “Beautiful! Brilliant! John, it’s all _connected!_ ”

“What is connected?” muttered John, feeling lost.

“The case – our case. It’s all part of that!”

The D.I. was honestly confused: “Wait. What? What case?”

“Don't be tiresome, Lestrade. We told you about the case this morning,” said Sherlock scornfully.

John's jaw threatened to fall to the floor. “You mean...” he muttered, throwing an amazed glance at the man under him. “No way,” he blurted out.

Frustrated, Lestrade half-yelled: “One of you better explain right now!”

Dazed, the doctor shook his head in wonder: “The theft of the Blue Carbuncle,” he explained. “I think you were distracted when we mentioned it, but we've been working on it.”

“What carbuncle? John-- _Sherlock_. What are you on about? Why wasn’t this theft reported?”

“Wrong question!” shouted the consulting detective.

Lestrade made a groan that was almost a moan of exasperation.

Sherlock spun in place and pointed dramatically to the young woman, saying with great relish: “You!...You're Catherine _Cusak_!”

“I thought she didn't exist?” blurted out John, covering Lestrade's exasperated “Who?!”

The young womanhad frozen for the briefest instant, but instantly recovered and smirked: “That's not my name,” she stated confidently.

“Oh, I know very well it's not,” said Sherlock with relished nonchalance. “Nevertheless, it is a name you've used as of late.”

“You can't prove anything!” yelled the man on the floor, trying once more to buck John off him. The doctor renewed his grip on the man's arm and twisted it a little more painfully up his back, cutting off his struggles.

“A little help here!” he grumbled pointedly to Donovan, who was shadowing Lestrade and sneering haughtily at the scene.

She started and blinked, then hurried forward with a pair of shackles, looking embarrassed. Fortunately, Sherlock was too busy showing off to bother insulting her this time. John rolled his eyes, but moved back to let her do her job.

“True, true, I can't prove anything,” the consulting detectiveproclaimed with his usual confidence. “I rather think, however, that Mr. Baker shall.”

John had to hand it to Miss Cathy: she was extremely self-possessed. She controlled her expression almost at once, but she couldn't help muttering something that, quite clearly, contained the word 'idiot'.

“Yes, quite,” agreed Sherlock carelessly. “And rather dull, to boot; but a rather convenient idiot, was he not? So easily manipulated.”

Lestrade facepalmed, but didn't comment and even made a slight effort to smooth down his frown. He signalled to a pair of his men to come and handle the two suspects and crossed his arms, evidently resigned to let Sherlock have his show.

“It must have been so very easy for someone of your skill to seduce the poor fool,” Sherlock commented almost carelessly.

Cathy hissed in outrage that looked genuine and the man yelled, incensed: “Leave my daughter alone!”

Momentarily derailed, Sherlock shot him a slightly surprised look. “Daughter!” he muttered in a disgusted aside. “There's always something.”

John and Lestrade couldn't help smirking.

A moment later, though, the consulting detective was shrugging off the detail as inconsequential. He turned to the young woman, eyes narrowed above his smug smirk: “How long until Baker was putty in your hands, _Cathy_? A day? Two? He is so proud of you, you know – absolutely delighted to have such a _girlfriend_. I expect he didn't even notice when you palmed the key, did he? Nor when you let it fall into your father's waiting hands – for you were both too... distracted, to close the window immediately, despite the cold; weren't you? Oh, you certainly made good use of that tree – and of how close to the window Baker kept the key.” He smirked even more widely.

She was as pale as a china doll, now, and regarding Sherlock with undisguised hostility.

“Returning it to its place wasn't as easy, though, was it? For it had to be that very night, you couldn't risk him noticing its absence. Quite the problem indeed. But you were daring enough to try and make it part of your alibi. Oh, you are _clever_. You kept him well distracted while your father made a copy, then you both played your part perfectly, the enraged father and the naughty daughter...”

“Enough!” she cut him off with cold dignity. “I don't have to listen to this nonsense, this, this...! This is _slander_. You have not the slightest proof of what you're saying!”

But Lestrade, who knew Sherlock well, glared her into silence and gave the consulting detective a measured nod: “Go on.”

“It was easy to deduce what had happened, looking at Baker's room. The traces of the struggle were as clear as day. Baker himself remembers finding the key among the debris of its broken container, fallen to the floor; he took it to mean it could not possibly have been moved – he was quite vehement in defending you – but we know better, don't we? Even John figured it out on his own.”

“Oh, ta ever so,” muttered the doctor, irritation at Sherlock's dismissive attitude warring with the admiration his deductions always arose in him.

“Once you had the copy of the key and had successfully staved off suspicions with your ruse, you were set. The second key is easily stolen, since Mrs. Ravensdale is less than careful with it most of the time, and the security system is quickly fooled if you have both.”

“What does this all have to do with the kidnappings?” interjected Lestrade.

“It's a load of bullshit,” exploded Cathy's father at the same time. “Why, he's making it all up.”

Sherlock's eyes narrowed: “I am most certainly _not_.”

Cathy snorted elegantly: “By your reckoning, we are then in possession of this... was it a carbuncle, you said?” She shrugged dismissively. “Do feel free to search for it--”

She was interrupted by Sherlock barking a laugh: “Of course you don't have it anymore! That's the entire point of the kidnappings!”

She paled, if possible, even more and shared a darting, worried glance with her father, whose complexion was also turning slightly green.

John smiled the look of smug glee on Sherlock's face – an expression he knew well: the case was drawing to a close and his friend was relishing the high of solving it.

“As I told John,” said the consulting detective to Lestrade, “the place and manner in which you found the child was a ruse. They were using her as a distraction, keeping the police occupied and the family out of the way while they searched the house. I already checked upstairs and there are unmistakable traces of a burglary… in the child’s room.” Sherlock smiled with satisfaction. “They were obviously rummaging through her things, particularly her toys. Check their pockets, they likely have LED penlights...”

“The child's room?” repeated the D.I., sounding bewildered.

“You were right, then,” commented John, unsurprised.

Sherlock waved him off briskly and started pacing. “Of course I was right. But the question remained. What did they want? What? What could they possibly want in a child’s room?”

Cathy was glaring at him with such icy fury John felt a shiver of cold; her father spat at Sherlock's feet, earning himself a rough shove from one of the policemen.

“Well? What did they want?” asked Lestrade, plainly short on patience.

“Isn't it obvious? _It's all connected!_ ”

And suddenly it was obvious for John as well. “The blue carbuncle!” he exclaimed, in utter amazement. “Of course – you proved they're the thieves, but you said they don't have it anymore... and they were looking for it here!”

“Precisely!”

“In a _child's_ room?” asked Lestrade, in obvious scepticism. “How would it even have ended up there?”

A suspicion was forming inside John’s mind, but he wavered before voicing it – because wasn’t it absurd?

Sherlock was outright beaming now: “Ah, that is the best part of it!” he gloated. “John, didn't I tell you this would be another case of picking the wrong goose?”

Lestrade was lost: “Goose? _What_ goose? Sherlock, could you _please_ try and make sense?”

But John was starting to think that maybe his friend was, indeed making sense. Only... well, surely not?...

“They took advantage of Brittany's job at the stand,” went on Sherlock, still pacing.

“Stand?” tried to ask Lestrade.

“At the clinic,” hurriedly explained John. He waved the D.I. silent, his attention avidly on Sherlock.

“Extremely clever,” his friend was commenting with all the appearance of pleasure. “Who would look for something valuable among all those trinkets? It's rather an excellent hiding spot. But the silly girl managed to get it sold--”

Here the father couldn't keep quiet anymore and burst out in a string of abuse for his youngest daughter. Lestrade waved at his men to take him away; Sherlock didn't even seem to notice the interruption – he was far too caught up in his own tirade.

“She was smart enough to track down the possibilities however and so they upgraded their plan to include the kidnappings. The children were never in danger, their target was always the trinket that's disguising their loot.”

John rooted around his pocket and fished out the little battered toy ring he'd gained from Melanie that afternoon and tried to wrap his mind around the new and absurd light it might have to be seen under.

His suspicions growing, he delicately peeled off the ill-fitting transparent plastic film. Beneath it, the blue surface gleamed, rather too smooth and lustre for plastic...

He closed his eyes, torn between berating himself for idiocy and laughing hysterically. How could he have missed something like this?

“All we have to do is find the right fake toy...” was saying Sherlock.

John smirked ruefully. “Oh, you mean… this?” he asked, producing the blue, not-so-fake-after-all gem with faked nonchalance.

It was worth it, to see their stunned faces – and to finally draw a shriek of utter fury from the coldly collected Cathy.

A little while later, John stood on the pavement, his back to the flurry of activities Lestrade was directing inside the house and, more importantly, to the line of reporters trying to push their way onto the crime scene. It was snowing again, just a light powdering of white over everything, and John felt the joy of Christmas build in him once more.

Sherlock's satisfied voice sounded right by his side: “Well. That is that.” He turned the lapels of his coat up and made to leave.

“Hold on. Sherlock, stop!” Lestrade, knowing them rather too well, had burst out of the door to intercept them, a scowling Donovan at his side, shivering in the biting cold. “You need to come down to the Yard, we’ll need your and John’s depositions and...”

The consulting detective blithely ignored the D.I.’s demands and continued stalking away, a tall shadow in the wintry darkness.

“Sherlock!” yelled Lestrade, almost whining – but the consulting detective merely called back briskly: “Let’s go, John. I have some biscuits to bake!”

Donovan’s and Lestrade’s shocked faces threw John into a fit of laughter.


End file.
